


Touch in the dark

by Anonymous



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Starvation, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27877877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Witchers weren't killed during the sacking, instead, they were pressed into slavery.Geralt is barely old enough to walk the path went he's yanked off it and collared, he life is an unending spiral of unhappiness until, many year later after passing through the hands of many masters he meets a human who sees him as more than a tool to be used.Reposted after I accidentally deleted... I cannot multitask
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Male Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Other(s)
Comments: 100
Kudos: 180
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally deleted this without getting around to answering a couple of questions that people had asked. If you still need/ want them answering please let me know.

Chapter 1

He wakes up to find a small group of strangers standing around him. He blinks disorientated, his head aches and his mouth is so dry it feels like he's been eating nothing but sand and ashes for many days. He struggles to rub his face and sit up but is brought up short when he can move his arms and legs. Confused, he tugs harder.

“He’s awake.” a voice says and he blinks blearily across in the direction of the sounds, trying to understand.

“It.” A different voice snaps harshly.

“Yes, of course. It’s awake.” 

“Huh, wha-?” he tries to ask, bewildered.

He is back handed across the face and he feels his head snap painfully to the side.

“Well, get it collared, quickly, if it’s waking up then we don’t have much time.”

He hears chanting and the thrum of magic in the air. “Wha-?” he slurs again, more urgently this time. The chanting doesn’t stop and he can feel the power of it in the air, it makes the hairs on his arms and legs stand up and the skin on the back of his neck itch with impending dread.

Something winds around his neck and there is a soft ‘click’ and he jumps violently, having been expecting a loud crack or a boom the small sound had frightened him more than a louder one would have. He swallows uneasily the motion catching at the object locked tightly around his throat.

“Alright, it’s collared now. You can release the restraints.”

There is a feeling like a winter breeze around his limbs and suddenly they can move again. He flails awkwardly and tries to sit up, his head is heavy and his whole body moves awkwardly.

Around him are a small cluster of total strangers, a few women - all beautiful and clearly powerful - witches and a man. One of the women looks at him, her large brown eyes full of sympathy then tears her gaze away, “we have done as you asked, we are leaving.” she says her voice trembling a little but still managing to ring with finality.

The man doesn’t reply, merely tosses his head towards the door. “You, boy.” he snaps clicking his fingers at Geralt as though he’s a poorly trained cur, “get up, you’re not lazing around all day. You’re headed for the auction block by sundown.”

“No.” he shakes his head, regretting it as the room dips and blurs at the edges.

The man in front of him laughs, “yes, yes you are. By order of the King all mutants are now deemed inhumans and as such are not afforded the protections of proper people.”

Geralt looks at him, because people have been treating him as a freak since even before he underwent the trials and certainly since he struck out on his own as a hunter, but this sounds... different. Much more serious. “I don’t think,” he says after a moment and with great effort, “that you can stop me.”

The man laughs, “well, we all have to be wrong sometimes, don’t we.”

Snarling now, Geralt forces his uncooperative body to stand, he reaches up to remove the collar but as soon as he makes contact fire burns through his fingers and up his arm. He drops his hand away with a cry.

“You can’t touch it.”

Snarling again, he stomps away, forcing past the man, heading towards the door.

“Stop.” The man’s voice is bored and unconcerned.

He ignores him and keeps walking, as soon as his foot leaves the floor to walk away pain explodes across his skin, burns into his bones. He drops onto his knees and curls over himself into a ball, trying to escape the agony that has taken over his body. The pain is too all encompassing for him to be able to draw a breath against it let alone scream.

“Good boy, stopping when ordered.”

The agony vanishes with the other man’s words, evaporating like dew on a hot morning.

“What? What’s happening?” he asks, dazed and still trembling with the ghost of the pain.

“The collar.” the man says, strolling around so that he’s between Geralt and the door, “If you don’t obey an order it will dish out an appropriate punishment-”

“Appropriate?” he demands, “how was that appropriate for trying not to let you kidnap and enslave me?”

The man smiles and suddenly the collar is sending waves of burning pain flooding across his body again, “it doesn’t just respond to your disobedience, it can be activated manually if you’re in need of a top up dose to keep you line.”

He hears the words as though they are far away over the roar of blood in his ears and the thud of his heart as the pain doesn’t stop but continues to build into a crescendo of agony.

Geralt blinks awake, still with a terrible headache and a dry mouth. He blinks into total blackness trying to see, wondering if he's gone blind, with his mutations he can see well even at night. Here though, it's just blackness, eventually his eyes adjust as much as they can and he can sort of make out vague shapes in the dark, areas that are subtly less dark. He tries to turn over but is brought to a halt by a chain he hadn’t noticed attached to his collar jerking to its fullest extension and dragging him back. Coughing from the sudden pressure across his windpipe he winces at the many aches and pains in his body that make themselves known. For a few minutes he is confused about what had happened to him, but eventually the memory of the witches and the collar returns. He feels behind himself for the chain that is attached to the collar around his neck, it's thick, and very short. It’s going be difficult to get any kind of leverage to try and snap it.

He is puzzling about the best method to wrench it free, touching the fittings to the collar and where the chain is attached to the wall searching for a weakness that he can exploit, when he realises how quiet the room is. Wherever he’s being kept it must be far from any urban habitation because he can hear horses or humans or anything. He can barely see and can hear nothing, the creepiness of the situation hits up at him and he curls up for a moment to try and think rationally through his mounting panic.

Whatever had happened before with the witches, the man who had had him collared had said that he’d be sold. Whoever had bought him would surely not waste their money by letting him starve to death in the dark. Would they?

“Hello?” he calls, more in hope than in expectation but there is only silence.

He can’t bring himself to call again, the silence even more oppressing when he’s waiting for an answer that just isn’t going to come. He fumbles for the chain and manages to get both hands on it while leaving enough slack that he’s not tugging on his own neck and strains with all his might, nothing.

Right, okay, well, this isn’t good, but there's still no reason to panic. None at all, he survived the trails, the mutations, he can survive this.

He goes slowly mad in the dark, he’s certain of it.

He has no way of telling how much time is passing, and left with only himself for company in the oppressive darkness. He starts to hear random noises like people talking or coughing and sees colours in the corners of his vision.

Eons later, when Geralt’s given up and is simply curled into a ball, biting at his lips and his fingers in some perverse attempt to self soothe, he hears footsteps. At first he assumes it's his mind playing tricks on him again, but a trap door above his head opens and a figure emerges holding a candlestick.

The light, small and flickering, though it is it causes his eyes to burn and run with tears and he can barely keep them open let alone try and see anything about his captor.

"'here?" He coughs, his voice is jagged and cracks around sounds as he tries to speak.

Without replying the figure places a cup on the floor a little in front of him.

He can smell the water and he reaches for it eagerly, his dessicated body desperate for the necessities of life that it has been denied. As his fingers make contact with the cup the awful pain rolls over him and snatches his hand back with a shriek that dies in his throat as a cough.

"Did I tell you that you could touch it?" The figure, a man, asks him. 

Still panting raggedly through his nose in an effort to suppress the pain he doesn't respond.

The man kicks him and the booted foot catches him in the ribs and he feels something give a bit under the force of the blow. 

He curls around the new injury as best he can, throwing his arms over his head to protect himself while drawing his legs up to protect his belly.

"I said," the man snarls, his voice harsh now, "did I tell you that you could touch it?"

"N-" he coughs, clears his throat as best he can, "no."

"No." The man agrees, "so why did you touch it?"

"I thought it was for me." He croaks painfully.

"You thought wrong."

The man picks up the cup and turns away - 

"please, no, please." He calls after the man's retreating figure.

The man stops, stoops, and puts the mug on the floor well out of reach and leaves without another word. The trap door slams back into place and the small amount of light brought by the candlestick vanishes, sealing him back into the silent darkness.

"Hey!" He calls as loudly as he can through a dry throat, "please, no, come back! Let me go!"

Silence is his only response. “Hey, please!” Geralt pleads, almost sobbing if he could as dehydrated as he is he would. “Don’t leave me here, don’t, don’t go, please!”

There is no reply, nothing happens, no noise, no more light. 

He curls in a foetal position as best he can and tries to regulate his breathing which keeps disintegrating into hitching dry sobs. Time ebbs and stretches around him, until he has no concept of the passage of time.

When the footsteps return Geralt makes no effort to move just keeps completely still until he is addressed, hoping that it is safer and less displeasing to this human. Once he gets himself free he is going to get his revenge but for now he needs to play along he tells himself.

“Are you ready to be polite?”

“Yes.” Geralt raps, his lips crack as he moves them.

A kick catches him in the legs and he cries out in shock, his voice dries and cracks making the sound weak.

“Yes, master.” the man replies, his voice perfectly level and calm.

For a moment Geralt considers telling him to fuck off because he can’t call him that, he  _ can’t. _

It’s the smell of the water in the cup that stops him, makes him think. What’s more important, his pride or his life? Swallowing, his throat so dry it hurts, he croaks out, “yes, master.” Inwardly he seethes, promising himself that this is temporary and that once he escapes he will prove to this man, this human, this weak and short-lived human that he has no master.

“There,” the man says, his voice gentle now, “good boy.” Geralt shuts his eyes at the rush of shame he feels at the relief those words bring him, “that wasn’t so hard was it?”

Geralt feels his eyes burn as dessicated tear ducts try to fill, he makes himself shake his head.

“And you did pretty well, I was wondering if I would find you alive. You’ve been here without food or water for more than a month. Amazing what those mutations do for you, I mean, you look like you could go for another and still just be clinging to life.”

Horror floods him, another month in the dark by himself, probably dying alone in the suffocating black. He’d always known he would die alone, but he expected it to happen with his sword in his hand facing his enemy - dying in defense of mankind; not at their hands.

“Please.” he forces out of his numb lips.

The man laughs, “do you want a drink.”

“Yes, please.”

“You’d better ask me properly or I’ll pour this out again and go home again.”

“Yes, please, Master.” he grits out.

“Here.” 

He struggles to sit up and take the cup, every muscle he has trembles with the effort and his hands shake so badly he almost spills. Huffing in panic he leans forward to make sure he gets every drop of water sipping it as slowly as he dares, letting the moisture seep back into his body. He drains the cup far too quickly and is genuinely upset when it's empty. Looking up at the man hopefully, squinting even in the dim light.

“That is the last free meal, you’ll be getting from me. Understand?”

_ Free meal?  _ He thinks, aghast it was a cup of water, not even any food.

Something must have shown on his face even in the semi-darkness as a heavy slap lands on his face and he grunts and tries to pull back, only succeeding in smacking his head into the wall behind him as he does. 

“Don’t you dare look at me like that.”

Geralt lowers his head, letting his dirty hair frame his face and hopefully hiding any expressions from the other man’s view.

“Right, let’s get you out, you’ve got work to do.”

He holds himself still while the man unlocks the chain holding him to the wall, and tries to keep his posture meek and unthreatening, this should be easy. If he kills this man then there can be no orders and he can walk free.

As soon as he is freed he lashes out, lands a blow on the man’s belly, meaning to drive the wind out of him before snapping his neck - quick and painless. As soon as the blow lands agony flares up inside him, burning through his head, down his spine into his bones. Geralt screams, curling around himself uselessly.

“Stupid.” the man tells him, “you think your collar would allow you to get away with that?” 

He doesn’t even sound winded Geralt realises, he must not have hit the man very hard or perhaps he didn’t even manage to make proper contact. He can’t tell or remember over the dying embers of the brutal agony that is still flaring in his nervous system.

“Get up.”

It’s a flat order and he knows it, knows there are going to be consequences for not obeying but he can’t. His body is still quaking fitfully from the overload of the agony that he was just put under. The next blast from the collar doesn’t come as any surprise but that doesn’t make it any easier to bear, and he writhes under the onslaught and tries to find the breath to scream.

“Get up.”

Geralt forces himself to move, his arms give out as he tries to lever himself up onto them, but he does his best to force his broken body to move. It must appease his captor who stands quietly and allows him a few moments to get his thoughts in order and calm his trembling. It takes three tries to get up onto his knees but he manages with a hand on the wall for balance. 

“Get up, we need to get moving.”

Swallowing back useless rage, would it kill his captor to show a little mercy? he struggles up. His head spins and he hears a faint buzzing in his ears. He has never fainted before, not merely from standing, he’s passed out from injuries but not merely from standing, so he doesn’t even realise what’s happening to him until his knees give out and he’s lying face down on the floor again.

“Get up.” The man repeats, clearly bored rather than annoyed.

He struggles up to his knees again, more than a little afraid of being hit with another shock from the collar. The strange man loses patience and grabs him under the arm and hauls him up, he expects to not be moved at all, he is surely too big and too heavy to be moved by a mere human. He’s shocked when the other man hefts him up and onto his feet with only a faint grunt of effort. When he is on his feet he sways and the man holds him up.

He is more or less dragged out by the stranger into the light. He can’t open his eyes against the light, it burns into his eyes, even through the closed lids, sending tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Geralt groans as he’s dropped unable to support himself alone, he covers his eyes with his hands and allows his fingers to part a hair allowing a small amount of light to pass through and to allow his eyes to adjust. Before he can manage to get his eyes open and adjusted the man kicks him in the back and he cries out and tries to crawl away from the other man. Another kick lands in his ribs and he curls up enduring the beating that follows while trying to get his eyes to open and adjust to the searing light after so long alone and in the dark.

Eventually it stops, and he is able to uncurl and roll onto his knees panting heavily, blood drips down onto the floor between his knees.

“Get up, and get the dishes done and the floor needs sweeping.” 

His captor is panting almost as heavily as he is and sweating from the effort of hurting him and Geralt feels a prick of fury through the haze of pain and despair.

  
  
  


Chapter 2

Get yourself up and get on with your chores. I’m heading out to the tavern.”

He wants to refuse but at the order his collar begins to burn against his neck and sending pangs of pain down his spine, he struggles over to the bucket of plates and mugs. He scrubs the plates out with the damp rag and stacks them to dry. All the while he steams with rage about what has happened. When he's finished he sneaks out into the garden and finds a barrel with water and drinks his fill, until his belly is aching and visibly distended. 

He almost sits down to wait for his captor's return, it's warmer and he can stretch out comfortably now he's out of that wretched cellar, until it occurs to him that he hasn’t been ordered to stay, he can walk away without pain, he has finished the chores he’s been set, he isn’t chained up. He can just walk away.

Geralt has no idea where he is, but in the end he supposes that it doesn’t really matter. Any direction will be good enough as long as it’s away from here.

He staggers away from the house, more a shack with a basement he thinks viciously as he walks, his whole body shaking with the effort. Now he can see himself he is concerned by what he sees, his bones are sticking out and he is filthy. If he was human he would have died, he hadn’t noticed before now but he has sores rubbed into his skin from his time in the cellar, they are deep and oozing. He swallows and keeps staggering forwards, he can find a healer when he finds a village it’ll be a bit difficult as he has no money but he can perhaps trade something for a bit of care. He can perhaps do a bit of hunting and trade meat or furs, until he can make his way back to Kaer Morhen at least. The land begins to rise and Geralt feels his lungs begin to burn painfully from the effort. It hurts and his legs burn with the effort of walking. Between one step and the next his collar fires again and agony burns over him.

He falls and rolls backwards, slipping and sliding down the hill it had just taken him so much time and effort to climb. The pain fades and he staggers to his feet again, looking around expecting to see the man that had captured him.

For a few long moments he just stands waiting - nothing happens. The birds sing happy and unafraid, no alarm calls to suggest that any humans are coming. As his heart rate slows and his pain levels recede he struggles back up the hill, slowly and with great care until he’s about where he was when the agony hit. He edges up until he feels the collar beginning to send warning shocks over his skin. 

Geralt backs off slowly and moves to his right then edges forward again - the pains return. He shuffles around a little more and tries to move forward, the pain stops him again. He continues with increasing desperation for a long time - eventually he sinks down at the foot of a large tree, leans his back against the trunk, pulls his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Geralt bites his lip, leans his head back and shuts his eyes, ignoring the prick of tears at the corner of his eyes, he has to accept that the collar will not allow him to move any further away. Anxiety cinches in his chest at what will happen when his captor finds him and how badly he will be made to hurt. He tries to work out a plan - perhaps he can send a message to other witchers? Maybe he can find a way to get the collar off?

After several hours - its getting dark now and it’s very cold - he hears the crunch of footsteps approaching and he hugs his legs a little tighter to his chest. He tells himself he’s cold not afraid - he fought literal monsters, he's not afraid of humans. He’s not.

“There you are.” the man’s voice cuts through the silence, and he shames himself as his breath hitches. “You’re not very smart are you? You can be tracked through the collar and you can’t go more than a league from where I set the collar.” There is a long moment of silence while they both consider the words. “Come on.” the man says after a pause, “let’s go back, I’m not prepared to stay out here all night.”

Now he is paying attention, Geralt feels the collar come to life at his throat - it doesn’t hurt him, yet, - urging him to stand up and follow his master back towards the house. Miserable and freezing he obeys.

The soft click of the lock clicking, locking the door behind him, sends a feeling of dread through him. The feeling only grows when Geralt spots his captor picking up a cane and swishing it through the air.

“Come over here and bend over and hold your ankles.”

“I, sir, erm, um, Master?” he stutters, desperate to avoid any more pain, he needs to try and regain his strength for when he escapes.

“No,” the man’s voice is exaggeratedly patient, but with an undercurrent of fury, “no excuses, bend over and hold your ankles.”

The hated collar sends a harsh warning shock across his skin and he curls over himself to try and avoid the pain. His captors hand lands on his shoulder and urges him further over.

“Hold onto your ankles.”

Shaking, he obeys. He understands that he is in trouble already and that resisting this man is going to anger him further and ensure that the inevitable punishment is worse.

He hears the cane before it hits him. The blow nearly knocks him over and he half stands up to help regain his balance. “HOLD YOUR POSITION!” Geralt flinches from the noise and almost falls, before checking himself and falling back into position and holding his ankles again. Blows rain down across his ass, his thighs and even across his calves until he knows that the welts must have cracked open and begun to bleed. “Stand up and thank me for training you.”

He takes a deep, steadying, breath and eases himself upright, every tiny movement causes his skin to burn, when he has managed to ease himself back upright he says “thank you.” in the steadiest voice he can manage. At the look of fury on the other man’s face he adds, “Master.”

The other man simply lashes the cane across his chest and Geralt groans as it lands across his nipple and his malnourished stomach. The cane prods at him - and he obeys the unspoken order back to the cellar - the chain is reattached to his collar. 

The trapdoor to the cellar closes behind his captor as the other man leaves and Geralt huddles in the dark listening to the sound of the other man’s footsteps fading away.

He spends uncountable hours hunched cold and miserable in the cellar, probably days, possibly weeks pass as his hunger and thirst grow and grow until it's all he knows, until finally he hears footsteps returning. 

The trapdoor opens and light floods in - sending tears flooding down his cheeks as his eyes burn at the change in light levels. The man climbs down and throws a key at him.

Geralt doesn’t dare touch it remembering what had happened the last time he had touched anything without being told to. 

“Good boy. Now, pick it up and unlock the chain.”

He obeys and stands up holding the key out to the man. The collar fires and he falls screaming, banging his head on something as he does so.

“Did I tell you to move?”

“No, master.” he grunts touching his fingers to the spot on his head that he had just hit, they come away wet and he knows he has split the skin but has no idea how badly.

“Then why did you?”

“I don’t know, master.” he mumbles chastened, feeling like a child once again.

“Get up and come upstairs, you have chores to do.”

He staggers as he climbs out into the main room, his eyes burn and his stomach clenches angrily, he has no idea when he was last fed. Once his vision clears he looks down at himself, his skin is still sore covered but now it is ash coloured and stretched over his bones in a way that makes him look as though he has died already.

“Right, you need to clean the whole house, do the laundry, chop the vegetables, and chop some firewood.” Geralt nods to indicate that he hears and understands, “if you get them all done by dinnertime I might allow you to eat and drink, understand?” 

“Yes, master.”

The cane across his shoulders startles him and Geralt cannot prevent himself from turning a hurt and confused look on the other man. “That’s for trying to do something I hadn’t asked of you. Is that understood?”

“Yes, master.” he repeats feeling the burn of the new welt across his shoulders, it is going to pull and hurt as he does the chores he has been set.

As exhausted and malnourished as he is the chores are incredibly difficult - he struggles to even remember the list that he needs to complete. His mouth waters as he chops the vegetables and he finds his eyes blurring from exhaustion rather than tears he is once again too dehydrated to cry.

Chopping wood takes him hours, it feels hard to just lift the axe and every blow with the axe is so weak that it barely cuts into the wood. When he has eventually managed and has stacked it away - uncertain is he’s supposed to or if he should leave it, he staggers on shaking legs back to the house.

When he makes it back inside the house he finds his captor sitting beside a roaring fire eating a chicken leg, at the smell of it his stomach clenches like a fist and he feels so hungry that it tips into nausea. He swallows hard against a wave of sickness.

"Come here." His captor orders. Geralt walks up on legs that don't feel like they belong to him, his head light and his thoughts distant. "Kneel down and put your hands behind your back."

Between the collar and his body's desperate desire for sustenance he makes himself obey, dropping himself down onto his knees more heavily than he had intended and feeling his legs protesting the cold chill of the hard stone immediately and tucks his hands behind his back.

"Because you're too stupid to work this out alone, let me spell this out for you. I am going to give you your dinner - and you should be very grateful because I don't think you deserve a bite of it - and you are going to eat it from your bowl without breaking your position or touching anything. Use your hands or sit down and I will take it away and you'll go down to the cellar hungry. Understand?"

"Yes, master." He tries to sound appropriately dutiful, tries to radiate sincerity, hoping that the other man will take the hint. That he will be good and just give him the food he needs.

The other man grunts and stands, there is a moment's clattering behind him and Geralt cannot bring himself to turn around in case it offends his captor and makes him change his mind. 

A battered tin bowl - the kind used to feed dogs from - is placed on the floor. It is half full with some kind of vegetable stew. It's cold and under normal circumstances would look very unappealing. Geralt cannot stop himself from shaking in anticipation. He glances up through his lashes up at his captor waiting for expression permission before he dares to eat.

“Take it.”

Geralt remembers that he mustn’t move his hands and crouches awkwardly trying to ensure that he doesn’t fall over and end up out of position. He has to simply shove his face into the bowl and eat from it. He gets food smeared around his face and has to try and lick every morsel of food off the tin bowl and his own face trying to get every scrap of food that he is able to. Not sure when he will be fed again.

His captor takes the bowl away far too quickly and despite himself he has a moment of hope that perhaps he will be given a second bowl. Instead it is returned full of water, Geralt waits again, drinks only when told to. His stomach aches despite not even being full and every movement seems to strain it. 

“Get up.”

He gets carefully to his feet, feeling his distended stomach shift and churn with the movement, his captor stares at him without speaking and Geralt feels anxiety rise inside him. Hot and unwelcome, it takes every amount of strength and patience he has to not shuffle or squirm.

“You know the drill,” his captor says, one dark eye brow rising expectantly, “bend over and grab your ankles.”

Bewildered, almost certain that the other man must be joking, Geralt simply blinks. A blast from the collar sends him crumpling to the floor.

“Stand up, bend over and grab your ankles.”

“But, but, b- why?” He blurts.

“Oh, I see, more disobedience,” there is a loud snort and Gerlat feels something inside him quail at the thought of angering this man even more even though he wants to ask. Wants to understand what he did wrong - why he’s being punished again.

After a few long seconds the collar begins to burn and he bends over.

The cane lashes across his buttocks and legs with such force that he knows he’s bleeding without even having to check. It takes every ounce of self restraint to not try to block the blows with his hands.

When the beating finishes he is deeply ashamed to find that there are tears on his face and he has to try and rub them away before his captor notices. A loud snort of laughter tells him that his tears have been noticed, shame curls through him and he can feel the blush rising on his cheeks.

He ends up back in the cellar - chain attached back to his collar - nursing a new collection of welts and bruises still trying to work out exactly where he went wrong and what he could do to fix it. 

Just until he manages to escape from this man he needs to try and keep himself as safe as possible.

It’s a boring and endlessly repeating cycle, Geralt spends untrackable hours alone in the dark - starving and struggling with the lack of light and stimulation, he can feel his sanity slip every time he is left there. When his captor is there he is dragged out from the cellar and he is put to work. He never manages to complete his chores without earning himself a punishment. So he is constantly covered in sores and open wounds, the wounds fester and the lack of food leaves him unable to heal them. The heavy workload when he is pulled out from the cellar means that he is often returned even more exhausted despite being fed.

The workload varies very little at first an endless cycle of scrubbing dishes and peeling vegetables, mopping and sweeping, chopping firewood and raking leaves. Gradually though more specific duties are added, his captor forces him to learn the skills of a maid, sewing and cleaning, laundry and even making the bed, of a butler, setting tables, serving drinks and taking orders, and even of a groundsman. He never knows what he will be called on to do for his captor when he’s dragged blinking into daylight from the fetid hole where he is kept.

“Get me a bath ready.”

Geralt blinks at the order - it’s a new one, that won’t stop either his collar or his master from hurting him if he fails to deliver it. He finds the bathtub out in the barn of all places and fills the biggest pot with water and sets it to boil. In the meantime he goes to the well for more water to pour into the tub. It takes longer than he would have thought possible - whenever he’d stayed in a tavern in the mere decade or so he’d been a travelling witcher the staff at those tavern’s had made getting him a bath look easy. Staggering under the weight of buckets and trying to mix the right amount of hot to cold to ensure that the bath is hot and comforting to sink into without risking burning his captor is surprisingly tricky. 

“It’s ready, Master.” he utters softly hovering just out of easy reach, if the other man wants to hit him he will have to step closer, and his captor will have no compulsion in doing so but that doesn’t mean that Geralt should make it easier for him than it has to be.

His master turns slightly to regard him, silently, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. Gerlat feels dismay gathering in his belly - Master showing displeasure so openly is never a good thing. After a long moment, Master gets out of his chair and tugs his coat off, dropping it onto the floor carelessly. “Pick that up, make sure you fold it.”

Geralt hurries to obey, his chest feels tight with anxiety but he can’t quite work out exactly what is making him feel so upset, he picks up the coat, made of thick material keeping Master warm while he shivers naked and cold even in winter, folds it as best he can and then gathers the rest of the clothes, as Master drops them as carelessly as he had the coat, and folds them too before placing them in a neat pile on the little wooden table in the kitchen. Master had made him paint it in the spring but has since dumped everything onto it and left them and Geralt can see rings from mugs and food stains maring the once pristine surface. 

“Come here and tend to me.”

Turning away from the mess on the table that he will need to clear as soon as he gets a moment, before Master can remember about it and become enraged, he steps up to where his Master is now reclining in the warm water. The older man is leaning back against the wooden rim with his arms along the sides, his eyes are closed and his face relaxed, the harsh lines beside his mouth are smoothed out and he looks almost friendly - softer and human. Geralt finds his throat oddly tight at the sight of it, the lie of it when he knows that the man in the water is as much as a monster as any of the creatures he was raised to destroy, but like this he doesn’t look like it. 

_ I never stood a chance,  _ he thinks suddenly, before trying to crush the thought away. It's so hard though, in the beginning he’d had such high hopes of escape and rescue, now after all this time and he has no concept of how long it may have been he is beginning to lose hope of ever regaining his freedom. He is going to be an errand boy for the rest of his life - a cold and half starved one at that.

“Master?” he asks, when he is close to the tub, keeping his voice soft so he doesn’t unduly disturb the occupant, “what is it you would like me to do?”

His master opens one baleful brown eye, “wash me.”

Swallowing, Geralt picks up a rag and dampens it in the water,  _ perfect temperature  _ , he praises himself inwardly, because no-one else is going to after all. He runs the damp rag across his master’s arm.

“No, you stupid, misbegotten son of a whore, get soap. Honestly, it’s lucky for you that the king ordered your kind into slavery, if I wasn’t here to look after you, you’d have died with this level of problem solving skills.”

“Yes, sorry, Master.” Geralt says as soothingly as he can hoping to appease the man who has the ability, and often the inclination, to beat him bloody for any real or perceived transgression. He finds a small slither of soap and uses it to wash his masters arms, legs and back. He pauses then, because is he supposed to..? And how? He wavers holding the rag tightly in his hands hoping for some instructions. 

Nothing.

“Master,” he asks, timidly, “do you want to do your own-”

“Did I ask you to stop?”

“No-”

“Did I tell you to take a break?”

“N-”

“No, I didn’t, did I? So get on with it and I’ll be sure to dock this off your dinner for the inconvenience.”

Tears spring to his eyes and he blinks them away firmly, weeping won’t make master change his mind and feed him, it will only make the man dock the meal for next time too. “Thank you, master.” 

He slides the soapy rag over his Master’s chest and down over his belly - soft with increasing age and a sedentary lifestyle - and under the water. It’s difficult to know at what speed to go - too quickly and he will be accused of trying to skive from his duties and Master will be very angry but he doesn’t want to dawdle over this task. It makes him feel awkward, embarrassed and ashamed. 

He has never had much to do with other adults naked, before his captivity he occasionally managed to scrape together the coin for a whore but mostly he was alone. At Kaer Morhen he saw other Witchers naked but always within the context of dressing or cleaning or first aid and then it was perfuncuary and brief. No one touched anyone else unless absolutely necessary and that was clothed, naked it would need to be life or death.

Task completed he steps back from the tub and puts the cloth down as quickly as he can, it feels soiled now.

“Get back over here and wash my hair.”

He takes boiling water from the pot left on the flames and adds it to the bucket beside him, he tests the temperature with an elbow like he’d once seen a woman doing with her children and uses a jug to wet his master’s hair before beginning to lather up the soap between his hands. 

The angle is awkward and it tugs at the barely healed welts on his back, he feels a few crack open and smells the scent of blood and pus as a few of the infected ones begin to leak. It makes his neck, shoulders and knees ache but it won’t help him to stop or do a substandard job so he continues pushing aside the discomfort of his knees pressing into cold stone and the itchy feeling of blood running down his back.

When Master’s hair is clean and he’s done all he can think to do, washed it twice and made an attempt to finger comb out the worst of the knots, he stops. SIts back on his heels and folds his hands into his lap and waits.

“Give me your hand.”

He proffers it, and braces himself to get to his feet without fainting, readies himself for the added strain of pulling master to his feet and the pain that it will bring to his ravaged back. Master wraps a hand around his wrist instead and draws him forward, bewildered he allows himself to be tugged closer, shuffling forwards on his knees as he goes. 

He resists when Master drags his hand under the surface and presses his palm against his cock.

“No, Master-”

“Excuse me!” Master says sharply, and Geralt feels his insides turn to ice, that is the tone Master takes when he has gone too far.

“Sorry, Master, It, it’s just that-”

“Don’t you dare fight me.”

He can’t fight his Master, even resisting Master’s attempt to drag his hand forward is causing the collar to send warning sparks of pain over his skin and even if he can hold out long enough that Master gives up, doubtful, he’s never been able to make Master change his mind before now, he knows full well that the consequences would be dire. Master pulls his hand again and rocks his hips up so that his cock presses into Geralt’s palm.

“Master?” he asks, and he can hear the fear in his tone, he had never considered this, he knows that whores will touch men like this, he knows that men can touch themselves. But a man touching another man... that isn’t something he had considered and he grew up surrounded by men and horny teenage boys. He is familiar with the sounds and smells of other men pleasuring themselves but not of being made to do it. “I don’t know what- I don’t. I-”

“For the gods sake, witcher!” Master snarls, forcing him to curl his fingers around his length and keeping them there by adding his own fingers over the top.

Geralt kneels trembling, more wounds on his back opening up as his Master uses his hand to jerk himself off into the tepid bathwater that Geralt tells himself he hadn’t been hoping to be allowed to use once Master had finished with it.

Master’s groan of completion has him screwing his eyes closed and turning his face away as though it will make the situation less awful. As soon as Master’s fingers loosen around his own he takes his hand back, holding it stiffly away from himself as he can smell the evidence of Master’s spend on his skin despite the water that had washed it away.

“Go and face the wall, hands behind your head.”

Biting down the urge to ask if he may wash his hands first, Geralt forces himself to stand and put his hands behind his head, clean hand first and trying not to let the dirty one touch either his clean hand or his hair.

There is a long wait as he listens to Master climb from the bath, dress himself and pull on his shoes. There is a long period of stillness where nothing happens at all. Geralt uses the break to lean his forehead against the wall and prepare himself mentally for the agony that is going to come. 

The first blow when it lands is vicious and his heart sinks as he realises that Master is obviously furious and that the beating is going to last for a long time.

Geralt comes to in the cellar, and tries to roll over, his back is a searing flame of agony and he has to bite his lip bloody to keep a tortured scream at bay, it’s only when he tries to lever himself upright that he realises that he’s broken an arm. Thinking back he decides that he must have lost consciousness and been dumped in the cellar, he can’t remember much after Master began to beat him and he definitely doesn’t remember climbing down himself. He must have broken his arm in the fall.

Sighing, a sound that leaves his lips more as a dying groan than anything else but he has no control over it, he tries to arrange his body into a position that puts the least amount of pain on his various injuries. He tries to roll onto his other side to take the pressure off his arm but is stopped by the chain on his collar, it's even tighter than usual. Exhausted and pained he shuts his eyes.

Master doesn’t return for a long time.

Moisture is trickling between his lips and dribbling down his throat - soaking into the tissues of his body and mending the dried out husk from within. He tries to open his eyes but can do no more than flutter his eyelids. 

“Ahhh, it is still in the land of the living!” a strange voice calls.

Geralt tries to turn his face away from it but he can’t quite manage it, a hand grips his chin and tilts his face. More water is tipped between his lips and he gulps gratefully.

“Not too much at once, it’ll be sick and with the state that it’s in that might be enough to end it.”

_ Please.  _ He thinks desperately,  _ be enough to end me. _

A warm scent of toasting bread wakes him. He is lying on his side in front of the fire, his arms are tied behind his back, strips of leather around his wrists and above his elbows drawing them together to prevent him from wriggling them in front of him. His legs are bound knee and ankle. Blearily, he wonders why they bothered, they could have left him unfettered - he no longer has the strength in his broken body to struggle.

He must make a sound as footsteps approach him and he braces himself for pain.

“Bring the porridge.”

Heavier footsteps approach and a spoon heaped with a lumpy grey mixture is thrust into his line of sight, Geralt opens his mouth. More in hope than in expectation but to his unending relief the spoon and its contents are shoved, roughly, into his mouth. He swallows the mouthful and is relieved when another if proffered. The bliss of being fed, of being warm is so great that he can’t make sense of it, cannot line it up against the backdrop of the cruelty he has endured for so long and make sense of it.

_ I died.  _ The thought slides into his brain and he mulls it over, it makes perfect sense, he shuts his eyes.

He hadn’t died. 

Geralt feels nothing but disappointment when he awakens properly to realise that his broken body is on the mend. His witcher mutations protect him even when he doesn’t want them to. Keeping him alive to be useful for his Master when he would much rather be allowed to lie down and be still forever.

“Ahh, there you are.” Master crows, relief clear on his face, “thank the gods, I have spent nearly twelve years training you and one heavy snowfall nearly undid all that hard work.”

“Sal, you should get its training finished and sell it. Make your profit, lad.”

“Ahh, you’re right of course, I’ll give it another day by the fire to build it up a bit then get the last part over with, it can go to the spring markets. There is sure to be some interest and if I start announcing it now there could be bidders from all over the continent by spring.”

Geralt shuts his eyes against the world and the endless disappointments it contains, concentrates on the fire and the warmth, the rug under his body protecting him from the stone floor. If Master is telling the truth this is the most comfort he has been allowed in more than a decade. One quarter of his life has been spent in a cellar being tortured. One quarter.

Master had often been difficult to please and quick to anger, but since he made the decision that Geralt was to be sold he has become even harsher, even less patient.

He has very little downtime locked away in the cellar, and he would have thought that he would have been pleased about that. He hates the darkness, the silence but now he is forced out with no time to recuperate he misses it.

Geralt misses the relative peace and safety of the basement even more at the end of every day's work. Before Master feeds him he insists that Geralt touch him. The same as he had in the tub except that he doesn't put his hand over Geralt's now, he expects Geralt to do it by himself. 

The first time he refuses.

Between the collar and the whip he gives in eventually. 

Master actually has to get a healer in to see to him to repair the damage that the whip does to his back. 

Master makes him touch the healer in the same way as payment for the healer's services.

Horrified and beyond humiliated Geralt kowtows to his Master's demands after that, if he has to tend to his Master's needs then it's better to just have to do it for Master. Rather than Master and another man. And it is easier to endure it if he isn't dripping with blood and screaming while he has to do it.

Winter is fading, there are patches of muddy soil between sheets of dirty snow now and the bravest and most intrepid of the flowers are poking through. Before this had been a relief, both during his captivity and even at Kaer Morhen, it meant an end to being constantly cold and damp, an end to early nights because it's too dark and cold to do anything but sleep, and end to endlessly shivering and starving. Now though it causes the knot of anxiety that lives in his guts to knot tighter and grow larger. Geralt is doing minor repairs, cursing under his breath as he tries to make the shutter for the window hang level, the wooden cover is surprisingly heavy and his arms and back tremble with the strain. He hopes he can manage to prevent any of the wounds from reopening. Now Master has thoughts of selling him, he has been tying Geralt down regularly and scrubbing his wounds out with some kind of liquid. It might help them heal but it burns like hell fire and Geralt has yet to find a way to go deep enough into his own head to endure the 'treatment' without screaming like a woman with labour pains. He really wants to though, the way Master laughs at him for his antics adds a whole other level to his discomfort. 

"Come inside and lie on the table."

Geralt bites his lip into his mouth but puts the shutter down and goes inside obediently, his collar buzzes at his neck - not painful but keeping him aware of what it can do to him if he isn't careful.

He lies face down on a low structure, it's more akin to a ladder than a table, with large gaps between slats so he can be bandaged more easily if he needs to be, and wraps his hands around the legs close to his head, waiting.

Master attaches restraints to his wrists and ankles, thick leather straps and another set across his biceps and just above his knees.

Geralt leans his forehead against the slat under his face and breathes as deeply as he can trying to prepare himself, he can hear the beginnings of whimpers building already and he hates himself for it.

"Right," master says from close to his legs, "pay attention, this is the only time I'll be doing this for you, after this it will be up to you to keep yourself prepared, understand?"

"Yes, master." He choruses dutifully, despite having no clue what the other man means at all. It won't matter, he reasons, if he can't do it, he will be beaten until he figures it out. 

Or dies. He still holds onto the thought that one day this will all be over.

Heavy hands land on his buttocks and pull them apart. 

Geralt jolts and tries to jerk his hands free, “wh-What, what, Master, what’s happening?” Something cold is poured between his buttocks and Master makes no reply, Geralt tugs again at the restraints panicking as he does, “Master, sir, no-” terror grips at his chest, he has no idea what is going on but he has a horrible sense of dread that he is not going to like it. 

“What did you say to me?” Master snarls, dragging his fingers between Geralt’s buttocks.

“I-Ah, I’m sorry, Master, but please, what’s happening.”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

He bites his lip into his mouth as his collar punishes him for any sound, he bites through his lip as fingers are shoved into his ass. “Master!” he blurts through his bleeding lips, and then groans as his collar fires. He pulls at his hands, trying to get free. 

“I told you to shut up. I told you before Witcher, this is the only time I am going to do this for you. You need to pay attention. This is for your benefit, without the oil you’ll be in agony. If you don’t learn it now then you’ll be lucky to survive to figure it out youself especially as dumb as you are.”

Geralt screws his eyes shut, trying to think past the horror, half from what is happening and half of terror at what still could be to come. He tries to sort through his options, when he is not able to speak without his collar hurting him, he can’t free his hands, even if he could he can’t escape.

His breathing descends into choppy hitches.

Master takes advantage of his helplessness and digs the fingers inside him further and Geralt can’t stop himself from clenching up, trying to expel the intruders. Fingers spread and twist and he sobs, squirming.

More oil splashes on his skin and the fingers are pulled out. Geralt sags against the slats panting,  _ ok, it could have been worse.  _ That had hurt and had felt humiliating but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. It was something he hadn’t even known he should fear, he hadn’t known that anything like that could have happened to him, as a man and as a witcher. 

He had heard of things like this happening to women, and worse, his whole body trembles with fear and horror.

A heavy weight drops over his hips, across his lower back. Geralt moans in a mixture of terror and disgust pressing himself further down into the slats as though he can escape, the wood refuses to yield - there is no escape. 

Rough hands part his buttocks again, “no, master, please.”

His hair is tugged backwards curving his back into a painful arch.

Thick heat presses up against him, pressing against the place between his legs that his master had forced open with his fingers. 

Geralt screams as he is speared open. Confusion and pain are all that he is able to understand - nothing else makes sense as he fights to free himself. He can hear his master shouting at him but he cannot understand the words, his collar fires sending burning pain throughout his body and it makes the  _ thing  _ that Master has inside him feel even bigger.

The burning pressure retreats and Geralt gasps for breath, fighting to make sense of the senseless act of invasion that is happening to him, the pressure returns in a rough seesawing motion that sends waves of pain up his spine and down his legs.

He screams again and then again as his collar dispenses another level of agonising punishment. 

“Shut up.” Master demands, and he understands that he needs to keep quiet to prevent his collar from punishing him more.

He bites his lip again, blood floods his mouth and he has to swallow it back to keep from suffocating or having it drip onto the floor and stain Master’s flooring.

He screws his eyes closed and endures - his Master groans and moans above him as though he is in as much pain as he is. 

Master drags his head back further and digs the fingers of his other hand into Geralt’s hip, his hips judder and Geralt feels a stinging throb inside him.

He retches, bringing up bile and water onto the floor.

“Oh, you stupid fuck. You’ll be cleaning that up.”

He nods absently, trembling _,_ _of course, who else would do it_. 

Master pulls back and gets off him, Geralt groans. He feels wet and open and dizzy.

There is a brief moment of almost calm as he lies shivering and panting, then Master pours some of the stinging liquid across his back and he screams.

He must have passed out because when he comes to his wounds have been scrubbed and there are bandages around his ribs, and his Master is picking at wounds in his wrists.

“You really messed up this time.” Master snarls. 

“Sorry, Master.” he tries to keep his voice steady but it judders out of him in staggering hitches, “M’sorry.”

“That’s not good enough.”

He nods sadly against the wood, even his best isn’t good enough and this isn’t his best. He wants to protest, he hadn’t even known that men could do that, had never imagined that anything could go inside him or that anyone would want to do so. But he knows that ignorance is not an excuse.

“Listen,” Master grabs him by the hair again and drags his head up, smirking when he sees Geralt’s face, “crying? Really?” He snorts a laugh, “pathetic, but listen, if you do that again - and you’ll be fucked again - if you don’t prepare yourself like I showed you and do as you’re told without making such a fucking fuss, I’ll have you castrated got it?” 

Geralt instinctively tries to close his legs and pain spikes both inside him and at his ankles where he must have rubbed them as raw as his wrists.

“It won’t reduce your value much, you’re sterile anyway and they will still be able to use you the way they want to, and it will reduce your value much more if you don’t learn your place. So don’t think that I am joking, if next time isn’t much, much, much better I will cut these off.” Master grabs a handful of his genitals and Geralt makes another attempt to close his legs to prevent it but is stopped by the bindings.

Geralt remains completely still as Master removes the bindings from his legs and lets him get up. 

“Get up and clean this up.” 

“Yes, Master.” Geralt walks, limps, away to find a rag and a bucket of water to clean his vomit and blood off the floor. It takes him a few minutes and he finds tears crawling down his cheeks, he scrubs them away but they keep returning despite how he tries to make them stop. As soon as his Master turns away he uses a clean rag and water to clean himself up and goes outside to work in peace. Trying to have the space to come to terms with this latest devastating torture, he wavers between tears and fury. His body will not stop trembling.

“Get back inside and tend to me.”

Terror grips at him and he has to bite back a scream of terror or the instinct to have a tantrum. He wants to refuse, or to throw himself onto the floor and scream and cry.

He doesn’t, the threats leveled at him and the constant urging of his collar mean that he has no other choice but to obey. 

Master is sitting in his chair beside the fire, his legs spread and a mug of ale in his hand. Geralt tiptoes around the door and into the room waiting nervously for his Master to acknowledge him. 

His Master lazily beckons him over and he moves on legs that feel numb.

Master tugs the laces of his pants open, revealing his half hard cock and Geralt takes an involuntary step backwards away from it.

“Come here,” there is a deadly warning note in the other man’s voice and he forces himself to step forwards again. “Kneel down.”

He does so, bowing his head, letting his filthy hair hide his face and shutting his eyes tightly. It's always been terrifying being close to the man who has no compunction in hurting him, and when the other man added the sexual level to their dynamic it had been even more terrifying but now it is horrifying on a level that Geralt barely feels able to comprehend. Doesn’t feel as though he has the emotional resilience to even begin to comprehend or endure. He was created to destroy monsters not deal with the emotional fallout of their actions.

“Stroke me.”

He opens his eyes and stares into the flames as he reaches for his Master, wraps his fingers around the other man and strokes him with the short quick strokes he now knows the other man prefers. It pains him to know that he knows how the other man best likes to be touched.

It is freezing in the cellar - normally he manages to sleep, exhaustion overwhelming even the cold and discomfort but the emotional turmoil means that he cannot sleep. He spends the precious few hours he has to rest curled into himself trying to find some measure of solace for himself. There is none.

He is pulled from the cellar early and put back to work gathering firewood and collecting water from the well. Backbreaking but out of his Master’s clutches and in the open air with the scents of nature and the sounds of freedom to ease his nerves.

He dreads what will happen when his Master follows through with his threat from the day before - dreads having to choose between being maimed or having to submit to the man. He spends the whole day trying to reconcile himself with what is going to happen, to what will be done to him, against his will. He fails.

It’s surprisingly late in the day, almost evening and he has almost begun to allow himself to believe that perhaps he might get away with it, that perhaps he might not be harmed today, when the thud of a vial being slammed down onto the counter besides him, while he carefully fillets fish for his Master’s evening meal , makes him jump and cut his finger almost to the bone. Thankfully in a way that will heal reasonably cleanly and shouldn’t impact future movement, he muses as he looks down at the gaping wound.

“Oil.”

He looks at it, his mouth going very dry at the sight of the innocuous little bottle, its contents so harmless and yet so dreadful. He looks up at his Master, dread pooling in his belly, “Master?”

“I told you that I would only show you once, and I did, So, now it is time for you to show me what you learned.”

He looks back at the vial, “Master? I don’t know-”

“Anything? Yes, I know, you’re remarkably dense, but give it a go. If you tear, you’ll learn from your mistake.”

“Tear?” he asks, voice going thin in his panic, because  _ tear?  _ that sounds awful.

Master grunts in response.

“Tear?” he repeats frantic.

“Yeah,” Master replies almost lazily, “from hole to sack if you’re not careful.”

The words hang between them and Geralt hears his wheezy panicked breathing as though it is coming from a long way away, it had hurt enough last time and there hadn’t been blood that time. Which means that it can be..  _ Worse.  _

“Last chance, use that oil and get yourself ready for me, or I will just take you without it. Come on, son, be sensible, spare yourself what pain you can.”

The gentleness is what tips him over into tears and to his utter mortification he stands in the kitchen of his Master’s hovel sobbing like a child.

“I know,” Master says, sounding almost sympathetic, “but you need to do what you can to protect yourself. No one is going to help you or do it for you.”

That is the truth and Geralt knows it, has known it for a long time but that doesn’t make it any easier for him to accept. His hand trembles as he reaches for the vial. 

“Good boy.” Master croons, sacerine and almost certainly insincere.

He forces himself to uncork the vial and tip a little onto his fingers.

“Good boy.” Master repeats, sounding strained now.

Geralt swallows down nausea, feeling the creep of stomach acid and bile at the back of his mouth.

“Start the same way I did, with a finger.”

Geralt cringes, his collar burns against his neck for his hesitation. As the pain grows and his master’s lips thin with displeasure he forces himself to slide a hand between his legs and presses a finger against that place. That place that Master had used to hurt him, the place that master wants to use to hurt him again. It twinges with remembered pain and he pauses taking a deep breath. 

“Come on, I haven’t got all day. If you’re not open and slick and on my cock by the time I count to fifty I’ll have you gelded. If you displease me anymore I’ll get them to take the whole lot.” Master must see the confusion on Geralt’s face because he clarifies, “your cock as well as your balls, boy.”

He slides a finger into himself hopelessly,  _ there is no other choice,  _ he tells himself, the shame and rage he feels towards himself does not fade. Not even a little.

The finger burns a little and it aches between his legs, his body remembers what was done to it and resists his attempts to prepare it for more of the same.

“-6,7,8,9-” master intones boredly.

Panic settles in his chest and he forces his finger a little deeper, adding a second to try and make space for the man in front of him, twisting his fingers and trying to persuade his tense muscles to relax -

“-21,22,23-”

-With shaking hands he pours more oil onto his fingers and tries to scrape off as much of it as he can inside himself, cursing gravity as it starts to drip down his wrist and between his thighs rather than staying where he needs it -

“-34,35,36,37,38-”

“I’, I-, Master, I’m ready.” he gasps out, dragging his fingers clear of his body.

Master doesn’t reply just grabs his elbow and forces him to bend forward over the kitchen table pressing his weight down over Geralt’s back.

Geralt grabs the edge of the table holding on desperately as he feels Master fumbling with his laces and then the heat of Master’s blood engorged cock pressing up against him. Master presses firmly and his body flexes to try and keep it at bay.

“Let me in,” Master snarls, “or, you know what I’ll do.”

“Trying,” he gasps out, “I-”

Master smacks him, hard, across the back of his head and he bangs face first into the wood of the table. Master forces forwards and he feels Master’s cock filling him painfully even as blood drips down his face from his newly broken nose. He turns his head to the side and tries to breath through his mouth now that his nose is blocked. It makes it harder to keep the sounds of misery locked in his throat without being able to bite his lips.

When Master comes he leans across Geralt’s back and forces Geralt to take his weight. Geralt locks his knees, afraid to let Master and himself fall to the ground. If he let’s Master get hurt then he will be in more trouble than he can imagine. He can't let the pain of this... assault turn into the agony of being gelded. He  _ can't. _

A few minutes Master pulls back and there is a slide of wetness that drips out of him and slides down his legs.

“Get down the stairs.” Master snarls.

He staggers back down the ladder into the darkness, surrounded by the smell of his own assault, chewing at his lip anxiously as he tries to work out why his Master is so angry with him. He sits in the darkness, hugs his knees to his chest and wipes at the blood on his face with his wrist.

“Get yourself ready.” 

Geralt flinches at the order but reaches for the oil that master has left for his use anyway, he still aches from the previous days abuse he had suffered at his Master’s hands or well at least his- Geralt shakes his head to chase the thoughts away.

“The barber will be here shortly and he is going to clean you up, as much as can be done anyway - you’re no oil painting. You need to be good and do  _ exactly  _ as he asks of you, if you disappoint me, you know what I’ll do?”

Geralt shakes his head dumbly.

“For your own sake you should keep it that way.”

The barber arrives a big man, broad shouldered with a belly that suggests many hours in the tavern, and he and Master retreat to the comfy chairs in front of the fire and have a short but intense discussion. Master turns and snarls, “get us both a drink.”

He does so as quickly, grateful to have something to do rather than standing awkwardly and nervously around in a corner.

“Come here and kneel.”

Stiffly, he obeys, dropping onto his knees at the barbers feet at his Master’s gestures.

The men drink in silence for a few moments, then the barber moves and pulls out the tools of his trade. Clumps of dirty hair rain down around him and Geralt closes his eyes in misery, he is going to have to clean up when the barber leaves and this is a job that could so easily have been done outside, he hugs his arms around himself to comfort himself as he is altered against his will. Telling himself that it’s only hair and that it doesn’t matter. By the end his head feels lighter and very cold.

“I presume that you want him shaven?”

“No, don’t worry, I have found a mage who can stop that, it’ll prevent his next master from having to bother.”

“Oh, ok, well then, I’ll just take what I’m owed and be on my way.”

“Witcher get over here and bend over for the barber.”

He desperately wants to refuse but he can’t - already his collar is urging him to obey and his only choice is obedience or agony. And after the agony he’ll be forced into obedience anyway.

He shuffles to where his Master is pointing and presses his forehead to the floor, burrowing his face into his hands. The sound of footsteps approaching him, where he kneels huddling on the floor has him trembling. Hands land on his hips and tug him upwards, tilting his body to make his abuse easier.

Thick fingers press against his hole, burrowing inside him, too many and too quick. He grunts into his hands, bites his lips bloody as the fingers are tugged out, roughly. There is a lot of shuffling and he can hear the sound of flesh slapping flesh, the smell of arousal heightens and Geralt realises that the barber is touching himself. Pressure against him, and it takes every ounce of self restraint to not flinch away. He wants to, so desperately, but the terror of what will be done to him keeps him in place.

The barber’s rough thrusts into him burn and he fights not to clench his body - resistance will only lead to pain, both from his abuser and the collar. 

It’s a hard learned lesson but despite his Master’s insistance that he is stupid it is one he has learned. 

The barber shifts between his legs and the thrusts continue at a new, even more excruciating angle, unwittingly he flinches and is kicked hard in the ribs for his trouble. His breath is knocked out of him in a noise somewhere between a grunt and a scream.

“Take it, bitch.” the barber grunts and bites him viciously on the back of his shoulder and Geralt twitches again, pinned between two points of pain.

The teeth dig deeper and he smells the coppery scent of blood, feels the trickle of it running across his shoulder and down his bicep. 

The barber grunts and his hips slap harder, bruisingly hard. 

The barber bites him again, sucking at the wound and Geralt feels the throbbing of the organ within him and tries his best not to sob with relief.

He is left on his own as the other men walk away and talk between themselves, he knows that he should listen and try to find out what is happening. But he knows that it won’t make any difference, these humans will do what they want to him regardless of his thoughts and feelings on the matter.

The door closes, the hinges squeaking in a way that sets his teeth on edge, and heavy footsteps tread back towards him. Geralt curls into himself as though he may have a chance of going unnoticed.

“Get up onto your knees.”

At the order his collar fires and it burns across his body drilling pain into his bones, his brain - every nerve alight with it. He forces himself to scramble up onto his knees, blood runs down his sides and there is a flood of wetness between his thighs, misery crawls over him and he has to shut his eyes tightly and breathe through the latest pain and trauma that have been inflicted upon him - to brace himself for more.

Master sides a hand into his hair and closes a hand around a hunk of it, tugs Geralt’s head back and glares down at him. “You were disobedient.” The implicit threat hangs heavy between them.

Geralt shakes his head, more out of despair than disagreement, “Master-”

“Oh, and now you are arguing with me.”

Freezing, helpless in the face of his Master’s ability to twist his words and actions to his liking, Geralt stares meekly at the furious man in front of him. He wishes he could be braver and stand up to this man - he’s certain that as a witcher he is supposed to be able to defend himself, that he should be able to kill his enemies and free himself. Or die in the attempt. He is certain that he is not supposed to be weakly kneeling before a Master and submitting to him without a struggle. Shame washes over him at his own pathetic weakness.

“Open your mouth.”

Shutting his eyes tightly he opens his mouth. He flinches and opens his eyes when his master runs a finger along his tongue. Tears well up in his eyes as his throat rebels. His stomach clenches at the possibility of his Master’s next move, Master can’t be about to...

Master pulls his hands back and begins to unlace his trousers.

Geralt sobs and shuts his mouth pulling back.

“Open your mouth and get back here, you have already shown me up enough. You’re out of my hands next week, either to the auction or if I can’t sell you then I’m going to cut off these-” he reaches out and touches Geralt’s arms just below his shoulders, “and these -” He reaches down and draws a line across Geralt’s thigh with one finger. “And then, then I’m going to let anyone in the village have a go with what’s left.”

It’s too much to process and Geralt doesn’t have any idea of how he should even try to respond to the threat of his own dismemberment and torture. He opens his mouth - helplessly. Wondering if he should take the option of death, it would be so easy if the method of his demise wasn’t so, so terrible. Master shuffles forward and he feels the touch of something, he tries very hard to not identify what, against his lips. 

He sits in the cellar, his stomach churning angrily, spitting to try and remove the taste from his mouth. Palming tears off his face, rubbing the back of his hand against his lips in an attempt to soothe himself, to try and remove the stain from his soul.

“Bathtime.”

He nods silently, knowing that it is less than pointless to complain.

“Get up.” Master ushers him silently out into the yard and hands him a bar of soap - it smells of lye, harsh and strong. “Get a bucket and scrub yourself off.”

Obediently, he goes to the well for a bucket feeling the wounds, old and still healing, on his back stretch and shift with the movements. When he has the bucket full he carries it back to his master and sets it down at the other man’s feet.

“Scrub yourself,” master orders, then jabs him in the chest with a finger, “thoroughly, if I see a dirty spot I’ll whip it off your hide. Understand.”

“Yes, master.”

The water is freezing, the well is deep and winter is still ebbing and flowing as spring isn’t quite here yet, Geralt grits his teeth and scrubs the water over his body with the rag, pushing down the instinct to gasp at the cold of it. He doesn’t want his Master to know how much the things he makes him do bother him. The soap makes his skin feel tight and sore as he scrapes it across his flesh. He scrubs through his hair and finds that it takes a long, long time for the water to flow clear, his hair is full of knots even after the wash and it’s shorter than he can ever remember it being in his life.

“I’ve finished, master.”

“Well, come over here and let me inspect you.” 

Trying to keep any hint of unwillingness out of his stance he holds his arms out and meekly allows his Master to turn his body this way and that examining his efforts at hygiene.

“Good boy, now stay there, a mage is going to sort out that horrid beard for you.”

“Yes, master.”

His master turns away and beckons to another. A thin, waif like man appears, his blonde hair is in curls around his boyish face and he looks almost as unhappy as Geralt feels. 

“This is your-”

“It is the witcher slave.” Master cuts the mage off shortly. “And, he needs that beard sorting and I don’t expect it to return - got it?”

“I can do that, and in return...” The mage’s voice trails off uncertainly.

“I will avoid mentioning the whereabouts of a few of your ‘friends’ to the king's soldiers.”

“Yes, thank you.”

There is a humming sound in the air and a buzz that he can feel, then a flair of pain across his face. Geralt doesn’t scream too used to pain now to bother, just exhales a little more forcefully than normal.

“There that should do it.” the mage says, wringing his hands together, looking at Geralt with sympathy before looking away. “I’ll be on my way.”

“Yeah, beat it.” Master says without turning around. “Wash your face," he barks at Geralt.

Geralt kneels beside the bucket and scrubs water and soap across his cheeks and chin. Huge handfuls of hair, matted and black with grime, fall to the ground leaving his face naked and cold. It feels strangely vulnerable to not have the beard - to be seen and to have his emotions even more visible than normal.

The auction house is busy, people milling around, the whole place stinks with the stench of sweat and terror. After so long by himself or almost solely in the company of his master the sights, sounds and smells are overwhelming. He wants to rear backwards like a frightened horse and refuse to come into the building where the scents will be stronger.

His master gives him a shove and he makes his feet keep moving. The inside is even more miserable than the outside, but there is an undercurrent of excitement that sets his teeth on edge and makes the hairs on his arms and legs stand up. His master drags him up to an official at a desk. Master leans over the desk and has a muttered conversation with the official - Geralt wants to tell him that he doesn’t need to bother as he could hear the conversation if he wanted to.

“Over in the corner, with livestock, he is number 2128.”

“It.”

“What?”

“Not ‘he’, it.”

“My apologies.”

“Come on, witcher.”

He follows along, trying not to look anyone in the eye, focusing on keeping his gaze leveled at the chests of those around him. He ends up being chained to the wall between a cage of chickens and a yearling. The horse smells harshly of sweat and fear and he has a moment of fear that he will smell similarly from the proximity, before remembering how much duller human noses are than his. His overstimulated head hurts and he sits, back against the wall, buries his face in his knees and covers his ears with his hands.

He sits there, his body freezing where his body heat is leached away by the stone of the walls and the floor until he is dragged up onto a makeshift wooden platform.

“Lot 2128, gentlemen, a witcher slave. It has been in training for the last 12 years, according to the notes it is simple and almost mute but has become proficient at basic household tasks as well as having received the basics in sexual training. Fear not, gentlemen, for it has been well cowed by its training and it is as meek as a newborn lamb. You won’t have any problems with this one!”

Geralt imagines, just for half a second, turning and breaking the auctioneers neck - grabbing his fat face between his hands and twisting, quick and sharp to the left and hearing the satisfying sounds of the bones breaking - at once his collar reacts sending a sharp lance of pain into his already aching head and he remembers the fate his Master had promised him if he wasn’t sold.

The bidding begins, slowly at first but growing as the men there find confidence in the bravado of their fellows.

After almost five minutes of yelling he is sold and cold sweat slides down his face, spine and his torso from the stress of the day. A man, tall and imposing with hair greying at the temples, stalks through the crowd and the other men melt away to allow him to pass. “It’s mine? Where do I need to pay?”

“You can pay me, sir.” The auctioneer, “then it’s all yours.” There is the clink of money changing hands, coin hitting coin, and the auctioneer beams, wide and bright, “it’s all yours.”

  
  
  


Chapter 3

He plays a set in the banquet hall to rapturous applause. Everywhere he looks in the crowd there are smiling faces filled with admiration and adoration.

He waves at a particularly good looking woman and she almost swoons. 

He smothers a smile, knowing that he’ll be able to talk his way into her rooms later with little effort.

He finishes his set and goes to get a drink, before heading out into the crowd and begins to mingle with the gathered nobels. He keeps half an eye on the girl he spotted earlier, waiting for her to come and speak to him. After perhaps half an hour, she slides over towards him and he turns his most charismatic smile on her and watches as two points of colour blossom on her cheeks.  _ Oh, yeah, he’s still got the magic touch.  _

It’s easy to charm her back to her room, mostly because she is so ready to be charmed, and he has a hugely enjoyable night in her room. It’s almost perfect, hot and passionate and come morning she’s as happy as he is to see him go. No awkwardness or tears, she plants a kiss on his mouth and tells him to visit the next time he’s in town. He knows she doesn’t mean it and she knows that he won’t but they both smile at each other wide and sincere.

He walks calmly from the room, a far cry from the normal sneaking out wary of husbands or wives or running from tears and accusations, and tries to follow the corridors back to his rooms. He’s only been to them twice - once to drop off his stuff when he first arrived and once to collect his lute before he played his set, it’s not a surprise to him therefore to find himself a little lost.

He hears voices and saunters towards them, some directions will make this much easier and he’s ready for a bath, a nap and a snack. He follows the sounds until he comes to a door and is reaching to knock when he pauses.

The sounds from within sound a little more suspect now that he’s up close. There is the sound of speech but there is the slap of skin on skin and the occasional grunt thrown into the mixture. It sounds like he’s stumbled upon a pair of lovers and he’s loath to disturb them at such a sensitive junction.

Feeling a little awkward now he shuffles a way off down the corridor so he doesn’t have to hear their coupling - from the pitch of the voices he thinks its two men, and while not illegal it can be a little...  _ frowned upon.  _ He doesn’t want to get dragged into any difficulties that he hasn’t created for himself, especially not here, and not when. Not when his career is finally picking up, he has enjoyed playing here and does not want to be on their barred lists.

There is just the sounds of voices for another few minutes then there is silence.

After a few more minutes he shuffles up to knock on the door, he really is lost and the only other option is wander around until he finds someone else.

The door opens much sooner than he had imagined it would and a handsome man with dimples grins out at him, “your turn?” the stranger asks.

“Uh?” he asks intelligently.

“Hey, witcher, come here, you’re wanted.” As he speaks the stranger steps back letting Jaskier see into the room for the first time. From behind the handsome man, a blond haired man is sliding off the bed in response to the other man’s prompt.

As the man turns, Jaskier has to hold back a gasp, if he thought the man who had answered the door was handsome then that's only because he hadn’t laid eyes on the newcomer. He’s gorgeous. Milky pale, but muscled, long white hair and oddly coloured eyes make for a very attractive package indeed. His eyes slip down the man’s body and,  _ yes,  _ there is also a very nice package there too.

He grins at the man, “oh, I don’t - didn't know you were here. What’s your name?”

The first man laughs, “He doesn’t have one, call him witcher, he was one of those, you know?” 

Baffled Jaskier shakes his head but the other man continues regardless.

“Anyway, you can borrow him, he’s not needed down in the hall for an hour or so yet.”

“Thanks!” he chirps, relieved, this guy probably knows his way around even if he is a bit simple as he thinks has been implied.

“Right, get dressed.” Dimples orders.

Behind them, the other guy,  _ witcher?  _ Shuffles towards a pile of tattered clothes and pulls them on. He clearly has no sense of fashion, but he manages to pull off the unkempt shirt and the well worn trousers - looking even more attractive while scruffy. Jaskier sighs, knowing that if he tried to wear similar clothes he would end up looking like a homeless person, rather than chic and smolderingly sexy.

Witcher walks closer and then stands silently in front of them. 

“Right,” Jaskier says, “right, well, I need a bit of help finding my rooms,” dimples grins at him, wide and toothy, “I was in the West Wing overlooking the orangery, do you know how to get back there?”

There is a slight pause then Witcher nods, as gravely as if he’d been asked to deliver state secrets to his monarch. 

He follows Witcher back to his room, revelling as they walk up a couple of staircases, as threadbare and tatty as those trousers are they cannot hide the fact that Witcher has buttocks that he could bounce coins off.

When Witcher brings him, silently, back to his own room he hesitates while Jaskier gets the key into the lock and shoulders the door open.

“Do you want to come inside?” Jaskier asks, because he isn’t going to say ‘no’ especially to someone who looks like this, even if they are mute and not very bright.

Witcher hesitates, a whole body movement that Jaskier feels more than sees.

“Never mind.” he says, disappointed but not wanting to push. He backs off and shuts the door. He needs a bite to eat and a nap before he goes to perform again.

His sleep is deep and almost dreamless and he wakes refreshed and ready for the day ahead of him.

He spends the afternoon hanging around the kitchens catching up on the gossip and sneaking treats. The older lady who is in charge falls for his charm while pretending she does mock glares and cuffs him lighting as he prances around singing and talking, flirting and being flirted with.

After a bath and a change of clothes he goes to perform for his audience. The meal is lavish and the wine flows lushly as the evening progresses.

He ends up leaning against a table between sets chatting to a whole group of smiling lords and ladies, they are laughing at something one of them said, Jaskier hasn't been paying enough attention but he knows enough to laugh when the others do, when Witcher shuffles in. Grinning Jaskier waves and is a little hurt to see Witcher blanch and look away.

"Not so friendly is he?"

"Who?"

"Witcher."

"What? Normally, he is very friendly. Didn't you ask?"

"Uh? He didn't seem very interested to me."

"What?"

The tone is so flat and so..deadly that Jaskier pulls back startled. It's a complete change from a few moments ago when they had all been laughing together.

"Uh?" He says, intelligently, aware now that he has missed something. "I-"

"I'll sort it."

"No, no, you don't need to-"

Jaskier cuts himself off as a couple of the men storm off. He looks around the rest of the faces, puzzled and hoping to find some elucidation.

Across the room, he sees the men grab Witcher by the arm and drag him away, the last he sees of Witcher’s face the other man is so pale he looks grey in his terror and his whole body is trembling.

Jaskier looks around at the others a bit surprised by the turn of events, but no one else seems at all startled. “What happened there?”

“Well,” one of the women, a dark haired young woman with pretty eyes, says, tilting her head to the side as though confused by his question, “what he deserved I suppose.”

“He looked pretty afraid.”

“Well, slaves are always afraid.” The blonde haired companion to the first woman replies with a shrug.

Unsettled and feeling guilty he leaves the feast early retreating to his rooms and shutting the door. He goes to bed, alone, curling under the thick blankets and shutting his eyes trying not to think about the look of total, grey faced, terror on Witcher’s face.

  
  
  


Chapter 4

Summary:

This is mostly Geralt and Jaskier failing to catch a clue and Geralt getting into trouble because of it. Don't expect much in the way of happiness yet. It will come though once Jaskier grows up and finds a second brain cell.

  
  


A volley of thudding knocks on the door startles him out of the semi doze he has fallen into and he almost falls out of bed from surprise. He is grateful he went to bed in his shirt as it means he doesn't have to rummage around in the dark trying to find some clothes to wear before he answers the door.

When he opens the door it is to a view of the same men from the feast a few hours before, Witcher in tow behind them, swaying on his feet and looking shell shocked.

“Witcher has something to say to you.” The closest one says, and they shove the white haired man forwards. 

Jaskier flinches back, before guiltily over correcting and trying to steady the other man. 

Witcher ignores Jaskier's support and sinks onto his knees, "I'm sorry, sir. Very sorry."

"That's ok," Jaskier isn't certain what the apology is for but nonetheless absolutely certain that the situation is bad enough without asking for explanations. "It's fine, no harm done, right?"

"No, sir." Witcher shakes his head. Jaskier cannot see his face as it's hidden from view by the curtain of his hair.

"Get in there and do whatever he asks of you."

Jaskier startles, "wha-"

"Yes, master." 

It only occurs to Jaskier that they obviously weren't talking to him when Witcher speaks and makes, what is obviously a colossal effort, to get back onto his feet and into Jaskier's rooms. To his shame his first feeling is embarrassment at speaking out of turn rather than the panic of the poor state of Witcher.

“We will collect him in the morning.” The guard says and the door slams, leaving Jaskier with Witcher huddled at his feet.

“Ummm, hi,” he says lamely, looking at the clearly terrified man cowering at his feet, “are you ok?”

“How do you want me?” Witcher asks, his face grey with terror and now that Jaskier can see him clearly, pain.

“Uh?”

“Shall I suck you, Master?” Witcher asks, face showing the strain of whatever it was that the guards did to him.

“Uh, no thanks.” Jaskier says, feeling out of his depth, ordinarily he would have been delighted to have an attractive man kneeling at his feet and asking to blow him but Witcher’s clear terror is not sexy. Jaskier would have thought that Witcher would relax now, would look relieved and maybe even smile. Instead his face goes eerily blank and still. He looks tense, the whites are showing in his eyes and his chest heaves with every breath.

"Ok, umm, why don't you just..." Jaskier trails off because... _ what? What is he supposed to say.  _ "Try to relax." He finishes lamely. At his feet Witcher goes if possible even paler but visibly goes loose and limp. "Erm, yeah, good. Well done." Jaskier feels foolish, he is talking to a grown man, one clearly several years older than him as though he is a little boy still clinging to his mother's apron strings.

Witcher blinks slowly, like a cat that wants to be friends and Jaskier notices that his eyes are yellow gold making the similarity to a cat even stronger.

"What happened?" He asks, and Witcher's golden gaze flickers left and right.

"I have learned my lesson."

The tone is flat and emotionless but Witcher's hands are trembling and the skin around his eyes is tight. "Did they hurt you?" Guilt and worry worm their way into his heart and Jaskier swallows, he hadn't intended for Witcher to be hurt. 

Witcher pauses, a full body movement, he doesn't even breathe for a long moment before nodding once.

"Where?"

Witcher glances up from under his hair, he looks frightened, confused and utterly exhausted. "Mostly my back." He replies with the air of someone admitting to a terrible crime.

"Let me see." 

Slowly, Witcher turns and Jaskier hisses out a curse at the sight of it. Witcher's back is black with bruising and torn open with deep lashes from his neck to his hips. Possibly further, Jaskier realises as he takes in the blood on Witcher's trousers.

"Ok," he says intelligently, "alright. You get up in the bed on your belly and I'll sort this out. Right?"

"Yes, master."

"Oh, call me Jaskier." It feels awkward today but Witcher gives no indication that it is a strange request, insteading obediently staggering to the bed, stripping off his trousers and lying down.

"Right, right, right, ok, right," he knows he's babbling but doesn't really know how to make himself stop, "I'll clean your back and then you're going to get some rest."

Witcher turns his face to the side, his eyebrows are scrunched together. "Master?"

"It's Jaskier."

"Sorry, Mr. Jaskier, sir. I..I don't understand your orders. I am very sorry, please will you explain them to me? I promise..." Witcher's voice goes very tight, "I promise I will do whatever you ask."

"I want you to lie still and let me clean you up." 

Witcher goes limp, his body slumping into the mattress even as his face goes, impossibly paler and more fraught looking.

Jaskier ignores him for the important tasks of finding water and rags to bathe the wounds that criss cross their way all down Witcher's pale body. He hears the water over the fire after touching the bowl and feeling the chill of it. Witcher looks too thin to be washed in water so cold. When the water is warm but not hot, hot will hurt more, he thinks, he takes it and a couple of clean rags back to Witcher's prone body. Witcher is trembling again, faintly, but steadily. 

Cold and shock, Jaskier thinks as he draws the blanket up over Witcher's legs to at least keep some part of him warm.

Witcher trembles even more obviously and Jaskier sighs. "I'm going to wash your back." He warns, lowering the cloth to Witcher's skin, cleaning away the blood.

It looks worse clean, the wounds are deep and the skin around them bruised and obviously painful.

Witcher doesn't move or make a sound, but his body shakes unceasingly.

"Right, all done." He tries to sound cheerful but is certain it comes out more like a maniac. "Time to sleep." 

He puts the red water away and for lack of other options climbs in beside Witcher, keeping a polite distance between their bodies. He concentrates on breathing deep and slow so as to not frighten the other man.

_ He barely dares to allow himself to breathe until the human beside him has fallen asleep. Only then does he allow himself to stretch out, unobtrusively in case the human is only pretending and waiting for him to disobey before getting him into trouble again. _

_ He really should have accepted the man's offer earlier. He had known what the 'offer' had meant but when the other had seemed to rescind the offer he had believed that he was safe. He should have remembered that he is never safe. _

_ He would have saved himself a lot of pain if he had bent over for the human without complaining or trying to prevent the inevitable. _

_ He should have know by now that the humans used his body the first time they 'asked' or they beat him into submission and used him then. _

_ He closes his eyes, exhausted and afraid for what the morning will bring. _

Jaskier wakes slowly, his body is bathed in pleasure toe curling, he can't work out what happened. He must have spent the night with the same woman who he'd spent the night with before.

Opening his eyes, he's met with a sea of white.

Fuck.

"Stop it!" He howls, crawling backwards as quickly as he can, "don't do that!"

Witcher recoils as Jaskier had slapped him, his eyes darting left and right before settling on the wall besides Jaskier's head.

"Sorry, master." He rasps and at the sound of his voice Jaskier's weak, traitorous dick gives a needy twitch. "I thought you would like it."

"Well, you should have asked!" Jaskier snaps, trying to pull his wounded dignity around him and think unsexy thoughts at the same time. "Gods, don't you have any manners? You have to ask before you touch someone like that!"

Witcher looks so pained suddenly that Jaskier feels bad, now he has woken up and his heart rate is starting to drop after the shock he does wonder if he has overreacted.

"I am sorry, master." Witcher says and his voice is even rougher and more pained that it had been last night when he had been beaten.

"And it'll...your back!" Jaskier snaps, abruptly furious again, "you probably split those wounds again!"

"I am sorry, master." Witcher repeats, as though they are his sole vocabulary, "I didn't realise, normally, my lack of..." Witcher trails off, his hands opening and closing in midair rhythmically, "hygiene and looks isn't a consideration, I am so sorry for the offense."

"That's not what I meant." Jaskier gasps, feeling wrong footed, "I meant that you... They'll bleed and you might get an infection."

"I didn't make a mess." 

Witcher is so pale that Jaskier expects him to swoon, half hopes for it, maybe he can convince the other man this was all a dream?

"I didn't, sir, please. Please, you can check, I didn't make a mess. There is no blood on the sheets. I promise, I promise,  _ I promise, sir!  _ I was careful, really careful. I wouldn't bleed on your sheets, sir, honestly, please-"

Witcher's breath hitches in his chest and he sounds like a little boy who's been scolded for stealing treats off his mother's table.

"Alright." Jaskier, cuts in and Witcher takes another breath to, presumably, keep arguing his case. "Ok, that's alright."

They both sit still breathing hard.

"Should I?" Jaskier jerks out of his thoughts at the quiet, timid voice. Witcher gestures at Jaskier's lap and then at his own mouth,

"Or my-"

"No, thank you." Jaskier says, suddenly channeling his grandmother the height of prim and proper virtuousness that she had been able to exude from every pore, despite having had 12 children, "that is quite unnecessary."

Witcher folds his hands back into his lap and looks at the wall again as though it holds all the secrets of this life and the next. "What would you like me to do?" He asks after a few moments.

"Nothing?"

"I should return to the foreman?"

"Yes," Jaskier rubs a hand over his face, "come on. I'll drop you off on my way to get something to eat." He thinks, "your foreman will feed you right."

"Yes, master."

Witcher's stomach growls so loudly that Jaskier is surprised the walls are still standing at the end of it.

"Will he feed you this morning?"

"No, sir."

"Come on, I'll get you something."

"I am not allowed 'people food'."

Jaskier can hear the quotes and it sets his teeth on edge. "Well, they won't find out will they?"

"They will know, sir, I am sorry. If you are ordering me to eat then I will but I have to tell you that my Mistress will not approve."

"Who's your mistress?"

"Her royal Highness, Queen Calanthe."

*Oh, shit, poor you." Jaskier says without thinking, no wonder Witcher looks constantly terrified. "Uh, anyway, what if I got you some of your food? What do you eat anyway?"

"Broth."

"That's it?"

"Sometimes I get other things." Witcher admits, "once," he looks a little dreamy, "I got a whole potato."

Jaskier blinks, wondering what kind of deprivation Witcher endures to be reminiscing dreamily about a potato. "With cheese?" 

Witcher actually ducks his shoulders and looks about, scandalised, as though Jaskier has suggested something filthy, "no, sir."

"Right?" He gets up, keeping his hips turned away from Witcher and dresses. "Well, let's see if we can't beat a potato."

Witcher looks worried.

The look of agonised worry fade off Witcher's face when Jaskier presses a crust of bread into his hand. "It's buttered." He whispers, in the same tone as Jaskier has heard from believers in temples, all awe and wonder.

"Yes? It'll be good for you. You're skin and bones."

"But, for...me?" Witcher looks around as though expecting someone to come and demand rightful ownership of a half stale crust and some butter.

"Yes."

It's pitiable, he thinks, as they walk along. The look of absolute bliss on Witcher's face as he'd eaten his bread and butter. Perhaps it should have been sad or even nice to see his clear enjoyment, but it had looked pitiable and Jaskier had felt embarrassed for them both.

The yard is full of activity, mostly soldiers at practice, Witcher walks so close that Jaskier almost overbalances from the proximity of the others shoulders nudging his.

"Åhh, there it is." The foreman calls as they approach, "did you enjoy yourself, sir? Was it good?"

"Yes." Jaskier assures, not trying to get Witcher into trouble. "Great."

"No." Witcher blurts, since he apparently has a death wish, "I was bad."

"What have I told you?" The foreman asks, shoving a meaty finger in Witcher's face, "about 'I'?"

"It is not a person." 

"Right, and how was it bad?"

"It," Witcher shivers and looks down at his feet.

"He was fine, good even."

"No, don't coddle it, sir. It needs to know it's place."

"It...raped a master?" Witcher covers his face with his hands, "I am sorry, sir."

"What the fuck did you do? And you've earned another go on the whipping post for calling yourself 'I'." The foreman screams, "you're an it!"

"Wait..no." Jaskier cuts in, but he may as well no longer exist, as Witcher is dragged off. The soldiers abandon any pretence of practice and gleefully come to help the foreman dragging Witcher off.

  
  
  


Chapter 5

It's a depressingly similar rerun, when there is a knock at his door.

He almost falls over in terror himself when he comes face to face with Queen Calanthe.

She is the one who asked him to come here, she heard his music and asked him to come and play. She literally started his career and she can end it for him just as easily. Being sent from her court with his tail between his legs will end all hope of a successful bardic career....oh, gods, what if he has to go back to Letterhove?

"Jaskier, darling." Her hands are cold on his face and he realises with horror that he hasn't bowed.

"Your majesty." He bows low and it's only then that he sees Witcher at her feet. Guilt and resentment boil inside him.

"There is no need for that." The queen's refined tones purr as she cups his face and gently presses him up to stand. "How are you? I have been told my pet caused you some problems?"

"A misunderstanding."

"Oh?" She sounds amused and disbelieving, "You're a sweet boy, Jaskier. Well, I want you to know that I have been very thorough in its punishment. I have come to tell you what it's punishment is."

"But, I thought you said-" he cuts himself off.

"A two pronged attack is always best." She breezes waving away any protest with one long hand, "now it will serve for the rest of the winter in the guard barracks..." At her feet Witcher makes a soft sound of despair, and is promptly kicked and slapped simultaneously by at least three guards. Three gleeful and smiling guards, "...or," Calanthe continues, "you can mete out your own justice."

"Uh, can I?" He asks really hesitantly, divided on trying not to sink his chances of a career and trying to help Witcher.

"Of course." Calanthe smiles, wide and happy. "If you have any problems with it just let me or Eist know." She pauses and looks down, "but I am certain that it will be on its very best behaviour."

"Yes, mistress."

"Because it knows that if it puts one toe out of line, what it is that I will do."

Witcher wilts towards the floor. "I do mistress, thank you, mistress."

"Show Jaskier how to control it."

"Yes, my queen."

"Witcher," one of the guards snaps, his voice the cold autoratitive tone of a dog trainer dealing with a particularly stupid dog. "Do not stand up."

Jaskier watched baffled as Witcher looks up pleadingly at the guards, his eyes are huge in his thin face and he shakes even more painfully than Jaskier has ever seen him.

"Do NOT stand up."

Shivering, Witcher stands up, screams, and collapses again.

Jaskier jumps back, ashamed that despite all the hours he'd spent as a teenager wanting to be a hero his first instinct is to run away from the sounds of agonised screaming. "Gods, are you alright?" He tried to cover for his blunder.

"It'll be fine." Calanthe says dismissively. "It's collar is enchanted to ensure obedience. You can top it off if you like, if it displeases you. Look." She reaches out to touch the collar and Witcher screeches again, curling into a ball, his arms thrown uselessly over his head, as though he might be able to fend off the pain. "There is no limit to how often you can do that." She says, "It won't damage it, only hurt a lot. So don't be afraid to use it if it is acting up." She smiles. "Alright, well any problems just shout." She turns and ushers the guards away leaving Jaskier with a still trembling and clearly totally traumatised man.

"What's your name?" He asks, sinking down to sit on the floor, he wants to give Witcher a moment to collect himself. If he asks him to get up and he physically can't will the collar still hurt him? He can't think of a way to ask about the parameters without frightening the other man.

The pause stretches into awkwardness and somehow back into relaxed before Witcher levers himself up to sit on one hip. "I don't know, sir."

"What don't you know?"

"My name?" Witcher pauses, "well, it's Witcher, but I thought....did you mean the name I was given before I was enslaved?" Witcher face does something complicated, "It means, it thought-"

"You're an I." Jaskier cuts off. "And how long have you been here? To forget your name? Were you brought here as a baby?"

"No, I was brought here 65 years ago to serve Mistress's Grandfather."

"65? You don't look a day over 30!?"

"....sorry?"

"Are you part elf?"

"I don't think so, sir."

"How long have you been a slave?"

"Since all the Witchers were killed or enslaved."

"How long ago was that."

"I don't know, sir. I am sorry."

Jaskier turns to look at the misery in Witcher's voice, suddenly realising that the 

Topic of conversation hadn't been very kind.

"Sorry." He mutters.

Witcher looks startled, looking everywhere but at Jaskier himself. "Yes, sir." He mumbles.

"Do you feel better?" Jaskier asks when his butt has gone either totally numb or frozen on the castle floor. "Shall we go in?"

"Yes, sir."

Jaskier scrambles, inelegantly, to his feet, and holds out a hand, meaning to help Witche up, only to see that the other man is already waiting. He moves very quietly despite the injuries and his size. Witcher glances down at the offered hand as warily as most would look at a snake. 

"Sir?"

"Never mind. Come on, let's go in." 

The candles have burnt down and Jaskier is tempted to go back to bed. Memories of the morning stop him. 

"Are you hurt?"

Witcher fidgets in a manner that suggests both that he is and that he is ashamed about it. 

"Can you tell me where?" Jaskier asks, pitching his voice to be soft and inviting. 

"Yes." Witcher murmurs, discomfort written on his face and the 'but I don't want to' so obvious in his body language that Jaskier can almost hear it.

"Ok." He nods, "well, I'll ring for a bath and leave bathing and medical supplies out." He makes a meaningless gesture. "Will you manage on your own?"

"Yes, sir." 

Jaskier goes to ask for a bath and stops by the kitchen to smile and flirt until the servants press some biscuits and some cheese into his hands.

"Bath's coming." He tells Witcher when he comes in, before stopping dead in the doorway and almost dropping his snacks. Witcher is... Jaskier isn't even certain, except that the other man is very flexible and Jaskier can see more of his asshole that he had expected too.

"Oh, gods, no, stand up!"

Witcher moves instantly and Jaskier remembers the collar and feels guilty that he has probably hurt the other man, but in his own defense he hasn't expected to see the other man's asshole. Or for it to look like that.

"Here are the medical supplies. Do you need a healer? Shall I fetch one?"

Witcher shifts awkwardly foot to foot and Jaskier makes a heroic effort to not look at any of the man's... features.  _ It's not ok to oggle slaves  _ .

"Um, whatever master desires."

"Does it hurt? It looked like it hurt!"

Witcher manages to radiate levels of awkwardness so operatic that Jaskier begins to worry he will pull a muscle or something.

"I- it has hurt worse without it's master's feeling that it's required the intervention of a healer." Witcher offers at last and Jaskier frowns before hurriedly making his face smooth out as Witcher looks about to faint with terror at the idea of his displeasure.

"You're a person." He starts and Witcher twitches, "but I don't care about what the others did. Do you need treatment?"

A knock at the door disrupts the conversation and Jaskier leaves Witcher to mull over the problem while he organises the delivery of the tub.

When the maid has left, Jaskier prompts, "well, do you need treatment?"

To his horror Witcher starts sobbing. 

No, not sobbing.

Just hitched breathing and awful trembling all the while standing with his hands at his sides and gazing ahead blankly.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, master. It feels nothing."

"Bullshit."

Witcher fidgets. 

"What's wrong?"

"It doesn't understand."

"What don't you understand?"

"It...it doesn't understand, it doesn't choose when it visits a healer? It doesn't understand how to be good for you?"

Jaskier blinks, struggling to understand himself, because  _ he  _ is not the confusing one here. He starts to retort as such but stops...he probably is confusing Witcher.

It looks like it has been a long time since any one took any care of him at all.

"I want you to take a bath unless it will hurt you too much."

"I..it can do that, master."

"Alright, get in and I'll make you up a plate to eat. Can you eat dairy?"

"It doesn't know sir. It's sorry. Please forgive it." Witcher looks despairing as though he expects hefty punishment instead of forgiveness for not knowing if he can eat cheese.

"Well, maybe we should let you heal before feeding you anything that might give you an upset stomach. An infection is the last thing you need. Right, into the tub. Can you wash yourself."

Witcher nods, and steps in. "Sir?"

"Yeah?"

"It's warm?"

"Yes?"

"Oh. Was it supposed to be? Do you want to go first? Should it wait?"

"No, that's for you. Get in and clean up."

Witcher folds into the water and sits knees to chest his gaze fixed on the water. Jaskier brings across some of the least stale biscuits, "here." He holds one out and wiggles it invitingly.

The hand closest to him rises, falls then rises again.

"Sir?"

"It's for you."

"Yes, sir. It's just...if it eats food then...it might make a mess."

Witcher's face is stiff with tension and his eyes are glassy with dread. Holding the biscuit a little nearer, Jaskier shrugs, "a few crumbs won't make a difference." 

"Um, yes, sir. But it meant...if, uh, when, when master uses it, if it eats solid food then," Witcher swallows hard and his throat clicks loudly enough for Jaskier to hear, "it might make a mess."

Jaskier blinks. His first instinct is to make a joke, thankfully he stifles it and presses the biscuit into Witcher's hand. "Eat." He says, "you need the food, you're thin as a peasant, thinner even, that isn't going to be a problem. Don't worry."

"No, sir." Witcher agrees humbly, eating as ordered. The same look of total bliss breaking out over his face as he does so.

Jaskier looks away, his gaze falls on his bed and his body reminds him of how tired he is. "Wash up and let's get some sleep."

The bliss slides off Witcher's face and he looks wary and haunted again.

"Yes, sir." Witcher agrees, despite his clear reservations, before looking at the water and pausing, slowly the wariness slips away and utter dread replaces it. 

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"It lied." Witcher whispers the words, while hunching into the smallest shape Jaskier has every seen a grown adult make. And he once saw dwarves at a fair.

"Oh?"

"It doesn't know how to wash." Witcher bites his lip until blood runs over his chin. "It's sorry. It will report to the foreman for retraining."

"Oh, gods no," Jaskier snaps, and regrets it when Witcher startles at his tone. Water sops over the side of the tub and Witcher promptly has a breakdown.

It would less traumatic, Jaskier thinks, if Witcher behaved normally, the way most frightened people did and cried, or screamed. Rather than hyperventilating into a half faint while babbling apologies and pleading to be forgiven.

"It's fine. Don't worry." Jaskier offers for approximately the hundredth time. Witcher quakes and makes another string of apologies and promises. "No, really, you're ok. It's all fine." He toys with the idea of just snuffling out the candles and going to bed and letting Witcher wear himself out, but the thought makes him feel guilty. The guilt makes him angry and he snaps, "shut up."

Instantly Witcher goes silent and Jaskier winces.

"Sorry." He sighs rubbing his hands over his face, "I, look, ok, listen what did you lie about?"

"It doesn't know how to wash in a tub." Witcher sounds so wretchedly unhappy that tears spring to Jaskier's eyes 

"Oh?" He replies, stupidly, "I suppose that you don't normally wash in a tub?"

"No, sir." Witcher touches a finger to the edge of the wooden rim, "it gets dipped with the sheep."

"Shit," Jaskier grimances, he's smelt sheep dip before on his father's lands and it had made his eyes water. He's felt sorry for the sheep. A person though... "That, that doesn't sound fun."

"It..?"

"Ok, nevermind, look," Jaskier grabs a couple of rags, "I'll do this side and you copy on that. Ok?"

Witcher nods and watches Jaskier dip the rag, wring it out a little and swipe it down his arm as though he is about to take the most important test of his life, before copying the movements halteringly with many glances at Jaskier as thought waiting for censure.

It's surprisingly peaceful, the only sounds are soft splashing and their breathing.

It lasts right up until Jaskier finds the amount of semen in Witcher's hair. He stares at it dismayed.

He had known, he's not stupid, he'd figured out how they abused Witcher but the evidence of it, is still shocking.

He supposes that after seeing the state of Witcher's torn hole he shouldn't be surprised at the semen but, somehow, almost impossibly, he is.

"You...erm, you need a hair wash."

Witcher blinks.

"Do you?" Jaskier shakes his head. "No, stupid question. Stay there."

He goes to get a tankard to use to pour water over Witcher's head and returns to see Witcher has frozen in the act of scrubbing at his feet, clearly interpreting the order to 'stay' as literal.

"Um, good, well done." Jaskier praises awkwardly in the hopes of making Witcher relax.

It takes another hour, Witcher seems to have more hair than a horse and enough semen drenching the locks that Jaskier has to assume that Witcher spent the entire day on his knees servicing the whole of Nilguard's army in one hole or another. 

He shivers, "all done." He steps away, to wash his hands in the clean bowl of water. "Use this to dry off and I'll find you something to wear." He waits until Witcher is dressed. "Now, listen," Witcher's head snaps up, his eyes round and alarmed, "you are not to report to or tell the foreman anything without telling me what you're going to say first."

To his dismay Witcher takes it as a threat and goes grey, Jaskier thinks about protesting or trying to explain before giving up. Either time will help Witcher relax or it won't, but either way he needs sleep. "Do you understand? You aren't to go and snitch on yourself and get into trouble, got it?"

"Y..yes, sir?"

"Ok, good. Let's get some sleep."

Witcher turns and sinks to his knees near the fire.

"No!" Jaskier snaps before closing his eyes in despair as Witcher flinches again, he's not sure he has the mental strength to talk Witcher down again.

"Sorry, sir. It shouldn't have assumed it was allowed near the fire. Should it report to-"

"No!" At Witcher's flinch Jaskier considers again just going to bed. "Come on. It's time for sleep and it's cold." He tugs on Witcher's arm. "Into bed. This is your side, and this is mine. Got that? If you're awake tomorrow before me you can get up, eat the biscuits, have a drink, use the pot, but you are not to have sex with me, suck me, touch me or touch yourself unless it's for cleaning or medical reasons, got that?"

Witcher nods.

"Right, go to sleep."

He snuffs the candles and rolls on to the side facing away from Witcher, gods he hopes tomorrow is an easier day.

  
  
  


Chapter 6

_ The cycle begins anew. Witcher thinks, curling further into the blanket he has been allowed. _

_ So far the broad strokes of every master have been the same. The initial period where he is still new and exciting and they barely let him eat or sleep so they can utilise his body as often as they can.  _

_ The early days are exhausting, so tiring that he can hardly speak and is left to stumble through his new master's attentions.  _

_ But they are better than the middle days, sadly the longest times with a master. The initial rush of new and exciting wears off and his master's become bored with him. Then they become creative. _

_ He shudders and curls up even smaller. _

_ As exhausting as serving this young man will be, it will be better than being sandwiched between Mistress and Eist, as they egg each other on to try more and more depraved things.  _

_ Truly, some of the ideas they have come up with have outclassed even the soldiers and the time he was the 'star attraction' of a brothel before he was offered as a tribute to the king. His stomach aches with stress even from the memories of his own pain and bewilderment at the ordeals he endured at the hand, bodies, toys and other implements of Mistress and her husband. _

_ His collar sends a lance of pain through him as a warning and he winces, shaking his head to force away the thoughts. _

_ He hopes this Master is as naive as he seems. Naive is good, the naive ones want to fuck and be sucked, as long as he oils himself up and keeps his legs and his mouth open then Master should be satisfied. Master is new too so he doesn't have many friends to invite around to play. This might be alright, he tells himself hopefully.  _

_ It might be ok, fewer rounds of group sex, he hugs his arms around body as memories of being trapped between bodies - a cock in his mouth, one pounding into his body, having to stroke two more, one with each hand, and all the while a crowd wait their turn - jeering and cheering, screaming and shouting, rise up and nausea surges.  _

_ He breathes deeply to settle himself. _

_ No, this should be better. Even as angry as he will somehow, despite how hard he will try, make this new master too, the early days of any changeover are to be cherished. _

_ They sustain him through the long wait until the end days, when his master is old and only wants him as someone to talk to and abuse only rarely.  _

_ He misses those days with mistresses grandfather so badly sometimes that his throat aches with holding back tears. But the thought's of only having to sit naked at his master's feet and the occasional treats he'd been permitted in the old man's dottage are the only ones he can still remember that aren't filled with blood, pain and fear so great that his body trembles beyond his control. _

_ He twitches as the collar drills agony into him for even thinking bad thoughts about a master long dead.  _

_ He sighs, closes his eyes and lets the memory of the old man telling him he'd been a 'good bitch' for rubbing his aching joints soothe him towards sleep.  _

_ He'd been good once, he can do it again. _

Jaskier wakes early and it takes him a moment to work out his own bad mood.

Oh, right. He's a slave..owner? Or at least a slave borrower now.

It's not at all what he had hoped to be. He sighs and rolls over braced for whatever pickle Witcher has emboiled himself in.

To his surprise, and relief, Witcher is sitting on the floor staring at the empty fireplace, his hands palm up and balanced on his knees.

"Oh, you're awake." 

At the sound of Jaskier's voice Witcher twitches and looks up.

"Good morning, master. I hope that the day finds you well."

It's so calm and steady that Jaskier is baffled by the sudden turn around.

"I am well." He answers, "how are you? Do you feel better?"

"It is functional, master."

"Rrrright?" Jaskier pulls the first syllable out to emphasise his doubt but Witcher keeps looking back steadily. "Have you eaten?"

"No, sir."

"Are you hungry?"

"Whatever Master wishes?"

"I want for you to tell me if you are hungry."

Witcher's hands twitch, his fingers curling and relaxing before settling again.

"I will not be damaged by lack of food now." Witcher offers as though it's reassuring.

"Ok." Jaskier sweeps a hand through his hair and stands up. From the way Witcher's eyes track his head he suspects that his hair is a mess. "Do you need any more medical supplies?"

"It needs only what Master seems fit to give it." 

Jaskier blinks, because what does that even mean? "I don't know that I can adequately guess all your needs." He tells the white haired man. 

"Yes, Master."

"Right. That's not very helpful." 

Witcher looks left and right, biting his lip. "Sorry, master." Witcher, looks up from under his lashes, "perhaps it can make it up for you?" Witcher moves forward so he is kneeling up, leaning forward. He licks his lips and then bites his lower lip, "please, sir," his voice, "it has been bad. Please, let it earn forgiveness."

"What? No! What is the matter with you? For the sake of all the gods, Witcher! Go and get something to eat then get dressed."

Witcher recoils and shuts his eyes.

For a moment they both wait as Witcher huddled eyes clamped shut and every muscle taut.

Then Witcher shivers and gets to feet, and goes to get a biscuit.

*****************

The whole day continues just as frustratingly. Witcher does nothing unless he thinks he has been asked to and will not say what he needs or ask for anything. By dinner time Jaskier is almost hysterical with the need to get away from him. Nothing Witcher does makes sense.

Jaskier had hoped that Witcher would relax.now he knew that he wasn't going to be hurt. That he would enjoy the time off as a vacation. Instead Witcher seems to be desperate to continue the abuse he has suffered and for Jaskier to be a part of it.

"Alright, I'll see you later." He calls as he closes the door on Witcher, leaving him in the suite that Calanthe gave him to use.

It's uncomfortable to perform tonight, he gets many knowing smirks and more than enough nudges in the ribs and winks. He hates it. He doesn't want to out and out tell them that he's not raping the Witcher either. Normally it would be such a low bar that he wouldn't bother boasting but here, here it's done by the queen and her consort so he has to tread carefully.

**************

_ Witcher burrows his face into his knees and makes himself not cry. Or scream. Or anything. He sits and breathes. And breathes and breathes. _

_ He's doing it wrong. _

_ He doesn't know how or why but he isn't behaving properly.  _

_ This new master is very lenient and up until today Witcher would have bet his life that a lenient master would be wonderful. _

_ Now he has one he knows differently.  _

_ He has no idea how to please the other man _

_ He's tried everything. _

_ Everything he can think of. _

_ Begged, pleaded to be allowed his master cock. Utterly debased himself in the hopes of pleasing this man who has the power to have him sent to the guardhouse until Calanthe chooses to recall him. _

_ He can smell the anger and frustration and he has no idea how to relieve it. No idea how to fix it. _

_ He wants to be good so badly his heart aches with it. _

_ Witcher fights to stop his breathing descending into panicked hitching, new master hates it. He has stank of rage of guilt yesterday when Witcher had lost control. So he had tried to make sure he was calm. But master doesn't like that either. _

_ What does master like? _

_ Who can he ask for help? _

_ Panic eats away at him but he forces it down and makes himself consider his options. What hasn't he tried yet? _

_ Back at the brothel most of the men who had paid to see him had wanted nothing more than a hole. But some had wanted him to like them, they had played at being his lover. They had told him about their lives and expected him to remember. They had even told him that they loved him. They hadn't loved him enough to help him. Or even enough to ease a little of his suffering by sparing him more sexual violence by not coming to see him. _

_ Other men had wanted to hurt him.  _

_ They had enjoyed his pain, his fear, his helplessness. _

_ Maybe new master wants something like that? _

_ New Master is not from Cintra after all. He might have different customs. He might have different expectations. In Cintra to allow even the slightest hint of upset to surface is considered a grave insult and the trainer's spent literal years beating the instincts to flinch or struggle out of him, until he could endure the worst cruelties they could heap onto him while remaining blank faced and silent, but maybe in Master's homeland a struggle is a turn on? _

_ It's a huge risk, Witcher chews on his lip anxiously, if he gets it wrong and Master complains, he will be sent for retraining. Tears are manipulation, flinching is rejection. He learned those lessons underneath the whips of the freemen and he learned them well. The idea of going against those lessons is even more terrifying than simply not knowing how to please. _

_ Full circle, thinks Witcher as the stress of being too stupid to know how to serve his master bubbles higher and higher. _

_ He makes sure that he is dry eyed when Master returns. _

_ Clean too. _

_ "Hello, master. Was your evening successful?" _

_ "Yeah. Now go to bed." _

_ Obediently, he climbs onto the mattress and uses his hands to hold his cheeks apart, showing master that he has oiled his hole, readying himself for master's use. _

_ "Oh, for fuck sake." Master's voice is pitched high with outrage and Witcher's heart sinks. "No, just go to fucking sleep. Fuck. I know why they beat you now." _

_ The words hang heavy between them, even as Witcher folds into his side and curls his hands to his chest. _

_ "I'm sorry, I don't mean that. This must be really hard for you." _

_ No, shit, Witcher thinks and winces as the collar lances into his brain for the disrespect. "I am sorry." He says half to appease the collar and half to appease his master. "I am sorry." _

_ Master throws a blanket across Witcher's back before tugging it into place. "There," he says, "go to sleep, Witcher. And in the morning just...you know, knock it off with all that sex stuff." _

_ How? Witcher wants to ask, how can I please you? How will I earn my keep if I am not working. Unless not working is work for this master? _

_ Gods, its head hurts from trying to work this out. _

_ It's a test. _

_ The thought comes to it after it pants awake after a dream about Calanthe's last birthday and the way she had chosen to celebrate. _

_ It's a test. _

This is a test to get it to misbehave.

Then they will punish it.

It must be good.

It must be good.

It must be good.

  
  


*****************

  
  
  
  


"Things are much better," Jaskier assures the foreman, and he means it, although not how the foreman would expect him too and that's just the best thing, isn't it? He can hide this lie in a truth and no one will spot it. "He's as good as gold." That too is true. After a rocky start Witcher now eats, sleeps and bathes, all without crying or having fits of anxiety.

Jaskier is actually pretty proud of himself, he is already a talented musician, even he hadn't suspected he would be such a good mind healer too.

**********

_ Witcher slides under the bed and bites into its arm until blood flows into its mouth. It can't hurt itself enough to die but it can hurt itself enough to let the fear and frustration out with his own blood. He screams into his torn flesh and the screams again. Happy that he can't be heard around the gag of his own flesh. It hasn't been used in four days and it knows that new master's restraint must snap soon. And yet so far master still seems content to give vague but impossible requests and then disappear while Witcher tries to fulfill them enough to keep his collar from firing. _

_ Today's is 'don't worry!' the breezy little order master had called out as he had left. Witcher is doing his best not to, the collar feels burning hot against his throat and his head hurts from screaming, so his best isn't good enough. But then it rarely is. _

_ The more he tries not to worry the worse it gets. _

"Hey, Witcher!" Silence greets him, which is unusual, normally Witcher comes to greet with some archaic terminology and to fuss over him. "Witcher?" Jaskier glances around, nothing. The room is empty. "Witcher?"

A dull thud draws his attention and Jaskier drops onto his knees to look under the bed.

Witcher is in a curled foetal position and there is blood on his face. "Fuck."

He reaches under and hauls on Witcher's arm to tug him out, Witcher startles as though he hadn't realised Jaskier was there.

"Hello, master." Witcher grits out, he is shaking very badly and his shirt is soaked with sweat.

"What's wrong."

"It is sorry, master, it couldn't obey."

"Obey?" Jaskier asks, "obey what?" He has been so careful to not push, to give Witcher space and time and to be as patient as he can be.

"To not worry, master."

"What?" Jaskizr asks aghast. "Well, I, what are you so sweaty?"

"The collar. It is sorry. Should it go to the foreman for punishment?"

"Gods, no, I think I should though."

Witcher shakes even more violently and Jaskizr hears it how Witcher must have. "no," he butts in quickly, "me. I am the one who messed up."

Witcher looks confused, no more than that distraught. 

"You've been good." Jaskier blurts, "very good, you're a good boy."

The look of puppy like adoration on Witcher's face is sickening. Absolutely nauseating and Jaskier hates that he is the one who put it there. 

"Let's get you a bath." Getting to his feet, he goes to ring for a bath, "let's soak the pain out of you."

He gets Witcher into the tub, hot water lapping at the sides and up to Witcher's chest and engages Witcher in the act of scrubbing himself clean, one Witcher will do religiously and dedicatedly, before he brings up the topic.

"Witcher? Does the collar take everything I say to you literally?"

Witcher's shoulders tense, the muscle that he has despite how thin he is bunching and flexing, "Master? It's not sure. It's sorry."

"Ok, don't worry, you were good to tell me." He hopes the soothing will help and Witcher does relax a little, "when I ask you not to worry the collar takes that as an order?"

"It is an order?" Witcher says, before clearly realising he has just disagreed with a freeman and almost falling over himself to back track, "it means, all orders are orders, because Master is always right, so if Master says not to worry then it should not. And not doing as Master says is disobedient!"

Jaksier gawks, struggling to understand Witcher's words. They all make sense but as a sentence they seem meaningless. "But I just meant for you to try and relax!" He protests.

"Yes, sir." Witcher repeats, his tone solemn. "It is doing it's best honestly."

***********"***"""

Jaskier drops Witcher off at the yard, where the foreman grumpily orders him to 'drop and give me twenty.' Jaskier pauses just long enough to see that Witcher is doing push ups and not anything more suspect before he goes to practice for the performance he will be giving late.

"So," Jaskier almost falls out of his chair as Calanthe drops onto the seat next to him, "there is a bardic tournament in....."

""Oh?" Jaskier tries to keep his voice level and not allow too much eagerness to surface.

"Yes, I would like you to attend as the representative of the Royal court of Cintra."

_ Gods, it's everything, everything he's ever wanted  _ .

"When is it?"

"In a month's time." Calanthe says, "naturally we will send you will a full complement of guards and when you win," her smile sharpens just in case he didn't pick up on the under currents, "you can spend the early spring in Oxenfurt, they will want to house the winner and you can guest lecture at the university, before returning here in the late spring. Ready for the summer festivals and the solstice. You'll find the time to write over in Oxenfurt?"

"Yes, my queen." He nods strenuously, "I have always found much inspiration withing the walls of the city."

"I hope you will again." She says, "I can't wait to have an award winning bard in my court, and your so young. It will be merely the start of a fine career. I can feel it."

"Thank you." He rasps out overawed, before remembering to bow.

"Enough of that." She chides, her voice warm. "We are friendly, are we not."

"Yes, my queen."

"Excellent."

It isn't until he is back in his rooms and sees Witcher, Witcher is sitting watching the birds fly around the roof tops that Jaskier realises he will have to leave him behind.

"Witcher, what is Calanthe like to you?"

Witcher jumps, as he always does when he's spoken to, but he settles faster and faster these days. "She is a generous Mistress."

"Oh." It's a relief to hear, it's probably just the guards that pick on Witcher and if he warns Calanthe about them Witcher should be fine until he returns. "That's good. Do you like animals?"

Witcher looks guilty, he still seems to think that liking anything is an unforgivable sin, "yes, master." He whispers, looking down at his hands. "It is sorry, it does like animals."

"That's ok." Jaskier reassures, "I like animals too. Maybe in the spring we can go and look at the lambs when they are born. Would you like that?"

"If master wishes." Witcher choruses dutifully but his shining eyes are giving him away. 

"In the spring," Jaskier promises, relieved to have soothed his conscience, "we can take a picnic and make a day of it."

**********

He doesn't tell Witcher he's going. There is no point in upsetting him, Jaskier reasons. It's still hard to know what Witcher will get upset about and what he will take in his long legged stride. Besides, Jaskier cannot disobey an order from the queen any more that Witcher can. Well, not without serious repercussions anyway.

*************

He waits until the last minute to tell Calante, until he is just about to board the coach. "I think the guards rape Witcher." He is pleased at his phrasing, no direct accusations, nothing that she can feel upset about.

She blinks, "did he say something?" 

"No, no," Jaskier assures her, he is pretty sure that Witcher won't be happy is he makes it sound likes he's been complaining. "No, just the first couple of times I met him," Jaskier swallows, "he was pretty roughed up."

Calanthe nods slowly, "I will keep a close eye out." She promises, "he will be here for you when you return."

Reassured, he climbs up and takes his seat, pulling a blanket over his legs. "Tell him good bye for me?"

"I'll tell it."

****************

The tournament goes brilliantly, Jaskier even beats his old rival Valdo and manages to look magnanimous when giving his speech instead of smug the way he wants to. A gorgeous young woman leans against his side as soon as he has climbed off the stage and presses her breasts into his side, beams up at him and Jaskier grins back at her.

It's a fantastic night, he has just enough to drink to enjoy himself without over indulging and the sex is fantastic. She leaves the next morning with a grin and a promise to go for a drink if they ever cross paths again, and Jaskier goes back to sleep.

**************

Oxenfurt is cold, the streets icy and slick but Jaskier is wearing better clothes than he had even as a viscount's eldest son and he's warm, even as the wind howls down the streets and attempts to blow him off his feet. The streets are surprisingly busy and Jaskier knows he's being watched, a few blushing young women are watching him from under fur hats and thick eye lashes. He waves and watches as they giggle before waving back.

He's been back in Oxenfurt for a week and already it's like he has never been away, except better, so many people want his attention and his 

**********

"Oh, I met a Witcher."

"No, you didn't." The girl, what is her name? He muses, laughs, "they died out a hundred years ago!"

"Oh?" Jaskier feels a bit foolish, "did they? What were Witchers?"

"Monster hunters." The girl says, setting down her book and leaning back in her chair to brush the hair out of her eyes, "they travelled around and killed off the monsters, kept the population's down. It's why you don't hear out most of the really vicious ones in the history books until around then. The Witchers kept the numbers down low enough that it didn't matter."

"Oh,"Jaskier thinks back to Witcher, he had been so timid, nothing like a monster hunter. "Really? Sounds heroic."

"Yes," she sounds somber and they were treated really badly, the king at the time had most of them murdered and the rest enslaved."

"Yeah, I did meet one then!" Jaksier crows before seeing on her face that his delight is inappropriate. "I mean.."

"A real Witcher? How did he escape captivity?"

"Uh? Well.... He hadn't, he was a...slave."

Even Jaskier's stunted sense of self preservation is telling him that she is not going to want to hear about what kind of slave Witcher is.

"Wow. Poor thing! A poor reward for keeping humanity safe."

"Uh huh," Jaskier agrees. "That's true."

"Where is he now?"

"Still in Cintra?"

"But you said he was a slave?"

"Yes, he was...he still is too as far as I know."

"You...left him?"

"Well..." Jaksier stutters, feeling wrong footed, "well, he wasn't mine, I couldn't just steal him."

"He shouldn't belong to anyone."

"No...but, no, I don't know why you're getting angry with me! I was nice to him!"

"What do you want?" She snaps, her pretty face is furious, "a medal for not abusing a helpless slave? A reward for leaving him to his fate? What will happen to him anyway? I didn't think that Witcher's had many skills that would be useful to a Cintran court?" She frowns.

"Uh?"

"What was he doing?" She presses, "killing monsters?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"That's what Witcher's do!"

"Well, not this one."

"What were they doing to him."

He almost retorts it's none of her business, but can't make the words leave his mouth, it's overly aggressive and too many years with his father have made him very, very wary of anger. "I think he was mostly used as... entertainment?"

She frowns, "like fake battles?

"Erm, no."

"Oh, gods."

Jaskier fidgets. This is not going to be good.

"And you left? How could you?"

"He didn't belong to me! He belongs to the Queen of Cintra! Am I supposed to get my head cut off for treason?!"

They state at each other panting hard before she turns and flounces off, leaving him alone.

Her words haunt him. The tone of her voice, shocked and disgusted, when she asked, 'how could you?' The look of horror on her face, as though he had been transformed into a monster himself.

His mind replays it at night and during quiet moments during the day. Oxenfurt loses its shine along with the glory of winning. He can't wait for the end of winter to return to Cintra, worried about the state in which he will find Witcher.

He stumbles out of the carriage into the courtyard, anxiety bright in his chest.

"Jaskier." Calanthe calls and he forces himself to steady and to smile.

"Your majesty."

"It's so good to have you back."

"It's good to be back, your majesty."

"Well done on winning the contest. I must organise a reward for you. You must think of something."

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask for Witcher but he stops himself, is that rude? He doesn't want to try and have her deny him any access to Witcher if she turns against him. "That is very generous, your majesty."

"Show him to his rooms." Calanthe commands and one of the lad picks up his case as a maid gestures him forwards. "And send Witcher to service him."

_ A good sign?  _ Jaskier wonders, perhaps he can ask for Witcher as a reward after all. 

The rooms he is shown into are even nicer than the last ones, richly furnished and decorated. 

His bags are placed down and the boy bows before leaving. 

"Can we get anything for you, sir?"

"No, that's not necessary... Oh, except Witcher, please have him come here."

"Of course, sir, we will send it to you as soon as possible." She smiles, curtsies as leaves.

Alone, Jaskier breathes to dispel the nerves, he abandoned Witcher, the other man must be furious.

He should be unpacking but is too nervous and instead he walks round and round, his body tense.

The door opens and he almost falls over his feet in his sudden desire to look unconcerned. It fails miserably when he squeaks with fright and looks more startled than welcoming.

"Here it is, sir." A grim faced guard mutters, shoving Witcher forward.

Witcher looks terrified, white faced and swaying, but at the sight of Jaskier the tension bleeds of his face and he almost smiles.

Jaskier feels his heart break, he hadn't expected forgiveness.

  
  
  


Chapter 7

"Is there anything else?" The guard asks.

"No, no thank you! You've been very helpful." Jaskier says, effusive with relief, he presses a coin into the man's hand and sending him on his way, leaning against the door as it closes behind the guard.

"Witcher, are you alright?"

"Yes, master."

"So you remember me?" Jaskier asks, despite all the evidence, half hoping that Witcher does not, he'd feel less guilty if the other man hadn't missed him.

"Yes, Kind Master."

Jaskier accepts the heartbreak as his due, if he was kind he wouldn't have left the other man to his fate.

"Did you win the contest, master?"

"Uh, yeah. How did you know about the contest?"

"Was it a secret?" Witcher asks, looking worried, and gods, Jaksier needs to help him to look less obviously anxious or upset so that the guards won't always know.

"No, no." Jaskier shakes his head. "I just wondered."

"The guards were talking about it when you left." Witcher looks shifty, "It was...surprised you left so quickly and the guards told it." Jaskier winces and opens his mouth to explain, shuts it again... because he has no excuse. "It was pleased that you went for a contest...it thought that, maybe, it had been really bad?"

Jaskier stares, then has to blink rapidly as his eyes fill with tears. "No, no, you weren't bad. I was. I shouldn't have left."

Witcher fidgets, clearly worried by Jaskier's distress. "It is sorry."

"Don't be, you've been good." Jaskier promises forcing down his own feelings ruthlessly, "come on, are you hungry?"

Witcher fidgets harder but his stomach growls loud enough to knock the castle off its foundations." Jaskier chuckles, "that's a 'yes'. Me too." He offers to reassure the clearly anxious man. "Let's go. I really want soup and maybe an apple if there are still any left."

He ushers Witcher down the stairs and into the kitchens, where he smiles as winningly as he can until the cook gives in and ushers him to sit at the little table. "Don't let it touch anything, sir, you don't know where it's been."

One of the kitchen hands scoffs quietly and mutters, "yes, we do!"

"Thank you," Jaskier says, trying not to ice over too obviously, "we will get out of your way." 

The cook looks relieved and presses bread, honey cakes and some little pasties into his hands before almost, but not quite, shooing them out of the kitchen.

"Here, these are yours." He gives Witcher the bigger half of the bread and an extra pastry, the other man's features are even more pronounced in his thin face than they had been when he left. 

Witcher looks at him from under the fringe of his hair before gulping his food down. Jaskier eats at a much more sedately pace but takes advantage of the lull to watch Witcher. The white haired man looks thin and anxious but not at death's door.

"Have things been ok," he asks "while I was away?"

"Sir?"

"I mean, have you been..." He trails off, what exactly can he ask that won't either terrify or upset the other man, "ok." He finishes lamely.

"It has obeyed it's betters to the best of its ability." Witcher says and he is so clearly frightened that Jaskier could hit himself if he didn't know that would frighten Witcher more.

"Yeah, you're always very good."

Witcher glances left and right before throwing up. "Sorry," Witcher gasps, in between gagging and retching, "it will clean up. It will clean everything up."

"No, no, leave it." Jaskier hauls the other man to his feet, "people throw up all the time. No one will know it was you. I won't tell and you won't either will you?"

Witcher shakes his head slowly, blanches, nods, before asking quickly, "what is the right answer, master? It doesn't know?"

"That you won't."

"It won't."

"Good, come on. A bath will settle your stomach." The walk back is gloomy, but he manages to catch a maid and order a bath, he had hoped to feed and reassure Witcher not terrify him into vomiting.

"Your back healed really well." Witcher mumbles something that Jaskier doesn't catch and concentrates so hard on scrubbing his body that Jaskier wants to ask him to relax. Witcher looks like he is going to rip his own skin off but he doesn't want to take what little agency the other man has away from him. " Shall we go and look at the animals? We could go tomorrow? I can ask the kitchens to provide us with some nice food, it'll be fun."

"It can't go outside the castle walls."

"I'll ask Calanthe." 

"It's collar goes off if it is too far from Mistress."

Well, there goes plan b of stealing Witcher and simply running away into the night. "I see." He says, hoping he's hiding his disappointment. "What happens when she goes on state visits?"

"Sometimes it goes with her and sometimes Mistress signs it over to the guard temporarily." Witcher shivers and Jaskier guesses that there are no happy memories there and resolves not to ask. "I see." He repeats. "How does she sign you over?"

Witcher shrugs one shoulder, "a witch."

"They enslaved all the Witchers but left the witches?"

"Some worked with them in exchange."

"Oh." Jaskier pauses, "I wonder where you find a Witch?"

Witcher shrugs again.

"Yeah, that's how I feel. You must be clean enough now? Come on, get dry, get dressed and come get some sleep. That's your side. Remember? I don't touch you and you don't touch me."

Witcher's shoulders relax, the muscles of his back unclenching and Jaskier could kick himself for not reassuring Witcher earlier.

"Can you try eating before you sleep?"

"It can try, master."

"I phrased that really badly, if you eat will you vomit?"

Witcher considers while he pulls his trousers on. "Probably, sir."

"Ok, let's take another look at it in the morning."

Witcher climbs into bed, keeping on his side and pulls his arms and legs in as much as he can. 

"If you touch me by accident then it's alright." Jaskier says, remembering his mistakes of disregarding Wotcher's collar from the last time.

"Thank you, master."

  
  
  


_ It lies awake to enjoy the warmth. The winter has been hard. It survived, it is almost certain it can survive anything but cold and hunger had made it's life even more miserable. _

_ It is glad to have this master back too. This one has only ever hurt it by accident and even then mostly through the collar. Never in an...intimate,  _ instinctively Witcher presses his legs together and looks across at master,  _ way, sometimes words and sometimes the collar but never like that. It could be a trick, it's pretty stupid, it's handler's tell it so all the time and it is the one in a collar so it has to give them the benefit of the doubt. It hopes that it's not and it can enjoy just a few more days of warmth and safety.  _

_ A few days would let it heal the tears inside and if master makes good on the offer to feed it then it will be in a much better position to endure the brutality of its life. _

_ It curls up a little tighter and tucks the blanket so that there are no gaps, the blanket is so soft and so warm. _

"-Itcher?"

"Witcher."

Jaskier watches as the long, white eyelashes flutter before those gold eyes slide open. Witcher blinks rapidly, his expression fogging with panic before sliding out of bed onto his knees and pressing his forehead to the ground at Jaskier's feet.

"Sorry, master. Please, tell it your bidding."

For you to use the correct pronouns, Jaskier thinks but does not say. "Breakfast? I went and got pottage." Looking down he sees Witcher look up and they lock eyes, Jaskier has just enough time to read the dismay in them before Witcher drops his gaze. "Would you like something different?"

Witcher shuffles, which is as good as a 'yes'. "Bread?" He offers and is pleased to see the strain around Witcher's mouth lessens. "Come on." He waves Witcher over and steps away to look out of the window to give Witcher a moment of privacy. "I have a performance tonight. Will you be ok by yourself."

"Yes, master."

"Do you want to come with me during the day or stay here."

"As best pleases you."

"Ok, well stay and get some more sleep of you can. You can eat anything you want and use the pot of you need to.*

He leaves Witcher and goes in search of the stables. Despite what the guards and the men like to think, the biggest gossips in his experience are the men with something to prove.

The stables are warm compared to the outside and he finds just the man he's looking for straight away, thin and grumbling away to himself, Jaskier knows that a few words and giving the impression he feels the same way and this guy will tell him every thing he knows.

"Hi, there." It's not his strongest opener but it'll have to do.

"Mornin'."

"It is that." Jaksier agrees, "and not a bad one."

"You do seem chipper lad, you got summ't to be 'appy about?"

"A nice night with pleasant company."

"Yous been allowed to have t'Queen's favourite in your bed?"

Tilting in his head in a way he hope the other will read as coy agreement, Jaskier grins.

The man grumbles under his breath. "Some folk'll 'av all to luck."

"Jaskier forces himself to laugh, "I'm all luck." The older guy huffs. Jaskier makes himself grin and continue, "Calanthe must be bored wih it," he shoves down a prick of guilt at the disloyalty at calling Witcher an it and vow to make it up to him, "if she's loaning it out?" 

The stable hand chuckles, "reckon so. It's good enough for t' rough play." Jaksier nods as though the sentence meant something to him. "Hear it scream from outsid' sometimes, t' queen first got 't as a teenager. She and Eist have been playing wi' it ever sinc'. Witcher started getting passed around, oh, maybe, five, ten years ago now."

"You can hear him scream from inside when your outside?"

The.stable hand laughs, "yeah, sometimes, you can hear it howl."

Jaskier smiles along despite the sick feeling in his stomach, the castle walls are thick and Witcher is really quiet. He swallows hard, "thank you." 

"No bother." 

Out of politeness he stays to listen to the old man talk, you never know who might be essential or know the right person to help out. He's glad he did when he spots the kitten. 

Small and bedraggled and dirty.

Creamy fur and a faintly grumpy expression.

It's perfect.

"Whose kitten is that?"

The stable hand shrugs, "just a kitten."

"Can I have it?"

"Sure."

He scoops it up and it huddles into him. Apparently unafraid of the human that is carrying it.

It's perfect.

"I got you a present." He declares as soon as he walks in. Which he does realise retrospectivly was a mistake. 

Witcher recoils before trying, badly, to pretend he didn't. "Th..t..th..thank...yyy..y.yyou, SSS,ssir." 

"It's, it's, just a kitten." Jaskier deflates as he holds the kitten up. Even when he's trying he gets it wrong. "I found it in the stables and I remembered you like animals...so, I thought, I thought you might like it?"

The 'it' makes Wotcher's face freeze but he doesn't say anything.

"I don't know if it's a boy or a girl yet. I'll see if we can find out and then we can pick a name? Or maybe one that can be boys and girls, so it won't matter? Like....Aryus?"

Witcher curls in on himself and goes grey.

"Or something else." Jaskier finishes, realising why the name might be causing Witcher such distress. "You can pick."

"It doesn't know many names." Witcher offers hesitantly, "except...Dagorad was the name of Mistresses father?"

_ No, bad, Jaskier, the little area of brain that deals with common sense, wakes up to insist. Do not name his therapy pet after his abuser, for fuck sake. Even if it was his choice? Or if it's his choice should he.... _

"Did you like him?"

"Yes, master. It loves all it's masters and Mistresses." Witcher almost sounds believable but his trembling is so obvious that it gives him away.

"Hmm, I was thinking more like..." Jaskier thinks hard to come up with anything that might not have been the name of a person or object that could have been used to hurt Witcher. It takes an embarrassingly long time. "Lettuce." He says at last.

"That is a very good name, master." Witcher agrees, instantly, and Jaskier is certain he could have said anything. Excellent, now that have a cat called lettuce. And Jaksier will have to carry the guilt of not one but two damaged lives...Lettuce, Jaksier grimances at himself, internally wondering if he needs his head examining.

"Lettuce needs a bath." Jaskier says out loud, "and food, maybe milk."

"It is sorry, master." Witcher says, while physically quaking, "but it is weaned and should not have milk. It's stomach will hurt."

"Oh, ok, yeah, we don't want that. Water then? And food. What will Lettuce want to eat?"

"Meat or fish, master."

"That's doable." Jaskier agrees, "shall I go for food and you can settle Lettuce in? Maybe try to clean him up? You don't have to if Lettuce needs time to settle." He leaves Witcher holding the kitten and heads down to the kitchen. He gets a bowl of broth and another of porridge while he's there. Both are easy on the stomach and he hopes that Witcher will be able to eat them without vomiting.

It ends up being a whole tray he takes back but he's glad if the extra time it takes when he sneaks back into the room to find other sitting cross-legged very, very gently stroking Lettuce with one finger.

"Lettuce rubs against it's hand even if it doesn't move."

"Does that bother you?"

"No, it just worried that maybe Lettuce didn't want to be touched."

"He has claws. He will let you know." He hands the bowl of porridge to Witcher and holds up the meat. "Do you think he will like it?"

Witcher sniffs, "it's pretty fresh, master."

"That's good. If you eat that will you vomit?"

Witcher looks at it warily and back at Jaksier, "there is something in the porridge, master?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Just, do you feel nauseated?"

"No, master."

It's soothing just to sit and watch Witcher eat and play with the kitten. Lettuce is much cleaner and even though both he and Witcher look like they need a nap and some care they both seem content. Jaksier leans his head back and shuts his eyes.

He wakes later, his neck stiff and his butt numb from the stone floor.

"Fuck."

"Master?"

"Nothing."

Opening his eyes he sees Witcher siting stock still, Lettuce asleep in his lap.

"Making friends?"

"It..is that bad, master?"

"No, gods, no, I thought you'd like the kitten."

Witcher bites his lip. "It does, master." He whispers.

"Well, that's good then." Jaskier debates with himself before adding, "try not to bite your lip, you'll make it bleed again."

Witcher spits his bottom lip out from between his teeth before Jaksier has even finished his explination Jaksier fights back the urge to sigh. "I have to perform tonight," he says instead, "will you be alright alone?"

"Yes, master."

He feeds Witcher again and accompanies both man and cat out into the yard for fresh air and exercise before he has to leave. It's strange to perform here again. The last time he'd been so nervous now he feels almost deadened to the experience, none of the rush or the excitement. It's a job, like any other and he can't wait to clock off. He makes certain that his performance is not lacking though, aware that he is only permitted to remain at court due to Calanthe's good will.

"Jaskier!" The queen herself steps out of the crowd and the numbness melts away. "How are you finding it here? Happy? Getting reacquainted? Witcher behaving?"

"He is, your majesty."

"Any issues just let me know."

"I will, your majesty."

"So formal," she smirks. "You must play the mid summer solstice this year."

"I'd love to." Jaskier says, his heart suddenly picking up, "that would be an honour. I will have to write to Letterhove to ensure I am not needed in my father's lands for the harvests." It's a lie, he hasn't been needed by his father ever. His father took one look at his slight and whimsical son and accept the inevitable. He'd spent most of Jaskier's youth worrying that his only son would fall or injure himself before he had the opportunity to abandon his familial seat. 

Calanthe nods, "I am sure it can be made worth your father's while to loan you to us."

"My father is a generous man and loyal to the crown."

Calanthe nods and stalks out of the room.

He sneaks back into his rooms in the early hours. Lettuce is alseep on Witcher's head, having made some sort of nest in the man's hair. Witcher is probably awake but pretending to be alseep in the hopes that Jaksier will let him be. Obligingly, Jaskier does and merely strips down to his smalls before crawling into his side of the bed. The sheets are warm and after the chill of the castle in the early year weather Jaskier sleeps quickly.

  
  
  


Master has been back for 41 sleeps. Witcher has carefully made a mark on the underside of the bed frame in ash from the fire place and it counts them everyday just to be sure. It's both a relief and a worry.

Life as Master's body slave is the nicest it can remember, Master brought it a friend and feeds it so often than Witcher can feel it's ribs with its fingers but it can no longer see them in stark relief with every breath..it has gained weight, muscle and fat, to pad out it's thin frame. 

It is clean now, master allows it to bathe every day and even allows it to use the same soaps as the other humans rather than the harsh alchemy used on the clothes, dishes and animals. 

It has even healed, even in the places that have been free of pain and blood in decades. The lack of blood after using the pot had been both a startling discovery, it had forgotten that such a thing was possible and such a relief that Witcher had allowed itself a few sobs of happiness when Master had gone to work and wouldn't be inconvenienced by them.

But what if master leaves again?

Witcher strokes Lettuce with one gentle finger, "Is this alright?" It asks the kitten, "you can say 'no' and walk away if you want." The kitten makes a strange sound, it doesn't really mew, just garbles in it's throat instead, and butts its head at Witcher's hand again. "Well, just know it's an option." It strokes the line of Lettuce's back. "You'll be ok," it reassures the cat, "master thinks highly of you, he won't leave you behind." 

It wonders what it can do to bind itself into Master's affections as firmly as the kitten has. 

It wants to be indispensable, for master to want to keep it. It just does not know how to achieve that aim.

  
  
  


Horns wake him and Jaskier falls out of bed in his hurry to see what is happening. From his window he can see an army advancing. "Fuck."

Witcher is awake and at his side in a heart beat.

"There is an invasion." To his own ears he sounds feint and disbelieving. At his side Witcher stiffens, "are you alright."

"Yes, master."

He's so clearly not that Jaskier wants to ask again but he knows if he does Witcher will tell him and he isn't sure if Witcher tells him things because he wants to and talking makes him feel better or because he is too afraid not to.

The alarm sounds again and Jaskier can hear the sounds of soldiers mobilising and people taking up the cry to warn others. "Stay here."

Dressing and leaving feels like a risk even though he is safe within the castle, he jumps at every noise and shadow. A troop of guards go storming past and Jaskier flinches as they almost brush him down the stairs with their momentum.

He heads for the kitchens. He needs information and he knows that it will be a good place to find it.

"What's going on?" He gasps as soon as he arrives.

"Invasion from Nilguard!" The nearest woman cries, "who could have thought that Cintra could fall. We're in end times!"

"Surely the army... ?" He asks, but she is hysterical. He offers her a quick but unsympathetic pat on the shoulder as he goes looking for some answers. "It'll be alright." The cook tells him, while looking fraught. "I'd get your stuff together just in case we need to go though." The cook wrings his hands. "The nilfgiardian army are strong."

Listening to the advice he heads back to his room for Witcher, it's a worry though, how can he flee if Wicher cannot leave Calanthe's side?

"Witcher!" He calls as he runs into the room preparing to apologise for scaring him but needing his attention. "Where can we find a -" 

He looks around the table has been knocked over, Lettuce is motionless in a pool of blood and there is no Witcher.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is kind of a rough read. It was rough to write and I've gone back and forth on whether I should include bits and how much etc. The story will probably more or less be ok without so if in doubt skip.  
> The worst of it is before -------------------------------------------------------------- so you can skip up to that part and still I think get the gist.  
> The next chapter should be up on sunday so if you hate angst and non resolution it might be better to wait for that on.   
> Also it turns out my vocabulary is nowhere near as good as I thought so if I have used words wrongly then please let me know. Spoliers at the end in case you want to skip

"Get the restraints."

"Will Lettuce be alright?"

"Shut up, Witcher, or when we are done vanquishing this little uprising we will come straight back here and you'll wish you'd never been born." Witcher bites irne lip to stifle any instincts to agree. "Take everything off."

Shucking it's clothes off and folding them neatly before placing them onto the floor, it's been naked in front of these people before, as far as it knows there is no way for them to hurt it that will be new. Nothing that it hasn't survived before no matter now painful or humiliating. It can survive this and return to master. It's body shivers anyway, the animal terror overriding even the common sense of obedience and past experience.

"On the bed."

"Yes, mistress. It is not prepared, should it-"

"Get on the bed and shut the fuck up? Yes it should." Calanthe snaps.

Witcher shivers harder at her clear anger but tries to stop before it can be in trouble. There is no point in making things worse.

"On your front."

The sheets are cold as it lowers itself onto them. The cold leaches into its body and it shuts it's eyes tight.

The restraints click around it's wrists and ankles and it fights to breathe calmly through the panic that unfurls in it's belly. It hates restraints, but that's stupid isn't it? It can't escape either way, but it is still afraid of the restraints. It has nightmares of the first time a master used it for days every time restraints are used on it.

Mistress pats it and it is torn between shying away and pressing into the touch in case it pleases her. It wants her to be pleased.

There is a soft knock and it's spirits rise...master?

"Åhh, you've started without me."

Witcher stifles the whine of terror building in its chest in the blankets - this is going to be very bad.

  
  


The head guard pulls out and the smell of blood and release grows stronger, strong enough that it nearly vomits. Eist is slower but eventually he moves back and Witcher tries not to let its body collapse in relief at being alone in its body for the first time in hours. 

"See you in the morning."

Footsteps, a door opens and closes not far away.

It's restraints are removed and Witcher reluctantly opens its eyes and looks at mistress.

"Get up and stand in the corner with your hands on your head. Face the wall. I don't even want to hear a peep out of you." Calanthe's voice is cold and despite everything it's eyes burn with the instinct to produce tears. Misery crowds down on it but it obeys as it's collar begins to heat against it's neck. Standing as it was ordered, hands on head, the lights off and nothing to distract from the smells, tastes and the pains of being used make its shake harder. It wants to wash so badly, wants to scrub every last trace that has been left on and  _ in _ it, a keening noise slips free and it has to bite into its lips hard enough to bleed to force the noise to stop. 

It forces down the knowledge of what the wetness between it's legs is, and how it got the, now numerous, injuries that plague it, instead focusing on the pain, and just the pain, of each injury. Allowing itself to acknowledge the hurt, to feel the pain and accept it before moving on. It cannot touch the injuries to soothe them or clean itself, it can only stand and obey.

Eist and Mistress play with it in the morning before leaving. 

It kneels, still locked in restraints, quaking with stress and pain as they filter out of the door, abandoning it to the torment of long hours immobilised by leather and metal.

It weaves in and out of panic attacks, terror and the itching pain of healing are it's companions for most of the day.

The increasingly desperate need to urinate takes over as the day wears on until finally Mistress and Eist return as it shakes with the effort of holding back.

"Mistress, please, please, please, it-"

"Shut it, Witcher, we are here to celebrate, not to listen to your whining."

It pauses, it's been ordered into silence but making a mess on the floor will make Mistress so angry, but so will speaking out of turn. It wavers caught in an impossible choice of inevitable disobedience. Desperate, it stares mutely up at its owners, hoping against hope and all expectation, that perhaps this time, this time, they will allow it to fulfill the needs of it's body before they use it. That they won't punish it simply for the inconvenience of being a live being that has undeniable needs.

They ignore it.

It's whimpering and twitching in desperation by the time they have stripped their bloodied armour off and returned to it.

"Shut up."

It tries to obey. Tries with everything, every last scrap of itself to be good, it can't stifle every last sound of desperate misery and the first jolt of the collar overwhelms fatigued muscles. The first dribble of urine goes unnoticed and it panickedly tries to alert it's betters to its dilemma before the floodgates literally open. The next blast from the collar turns the trickle to a flood and the results are not anything it can hide.

It doesn't dare look up, fixing it's gaze on the steadily widening puddle. 

The punishment is not unexpected in its existence but even for Mistress and Eist it's brutality is a surprise.

The maids that come to clean the blood, urine and vomit from the floor, and it's battered body, are rough and the smell of their disgust is overpowering. The sting of the lye in its wounds hurts so badly that it takes every last shred of self control to stay still and let them inflict the agony on areas of it's body that it still, in the deepest recesses of its mind, thinks of as private.

The notion is stripped away as Mistress and her lover return.

The sex was inevitable, it muses, but the whole thing is more.. invasive than normal, Mistress puts a knee on it's back to hold it bent over as Eist thrusts into it. They all know it cannot refuse or escape but they bind it's hands behind it's back regardless. They must have won, Witcher thinks, victory has always inflated their lusts and Eist is fucking into its body with rough thrusts that can only be designed to pain it. Big hands pulling it's hips back into those punishing thrusts that hurt even beyond the torn flesh and the knee in it's spine.

"Another few days and the Nilfguardian scum will be running back home, tails between their legs."

"Absolutely." Eist does not stop the constant movement of his hips, even as Witcher hears them kissing. "The ones that still live anyway."

\--------------------------------------------------------------

It wakes suddenly, having not been aware that it was asleep or passed out, a hand clamps down over it's face and it goes completely still, not daring even to struggle. "Do not make a sound." A voice hisses, "understand?"

It nods as best as it can against the palm still cupped over its mouth.

"Good." The grip loosens and it waits for the hand to touch it or hurt it.

Instead the hand retreats, the muscular body going with it. The man tiptoes towards the bed where mistress and her husband lie sleeping tangled together. 

"Mistress?" It calls, anxious suddenly, if this man isn't meant to be here and it doesn't raise the alarm- it shudders at the thought. 

"Fuck sake, Geralt!? What the fuck?"

"What's going on?"

Mistress sits up and screams.

Everything goes sideways suddenly and it's collar sends the kind of blast into it's nervous system that Witcher cannot do anything but throw it's arms up over it's head and scream.

The pain does not stop.

It screams and screams.

_ I'm dying.  _ The thought drifts through his mind and the collar is so maxed out that even the thought of banned words does not increase the agony. It's a nice realisation. It's over. It's done. It has wanted the pain to stop for decades, death it knows will stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one you care about in this story is dead.


	3. Chapter 3

"Gods!" A voice snaps and Witcher keeps his eyes closed and his breathing regular even as it's heart breaks with disappointment. 

Still alive. Even after, whatever happened to it? After everything? How can that be?

"What the fuck happened?"

"How-" an angry voice declares, "the fuck should I know."

 _Fantastic, still alive and it's handlers are both unfamiliar and furious._ Neither one of those on their own fill it with confidence that it will be able to satisfy it's tormentors without pain but together...it's got no chance. It's collar flares at the thought of leaving a master unsatisfied and it's shockingly painful.

It must move, a flinch or muscle tick to give itself away. "Geralt! Geralt! You're ok, thank the gods! Are you ok?," the hands on it's shoulders shake it surprisingly gently. "Do you want water?"

Reluctantly it opens its eyes and looks into the face of it's handler. Dark hair, big scar, lots of muscles, Witcher mentally revises the expectations for how much it will be made to hurt tonight, glances down at the man's body and increases the expectations even further. The other man is tall, broad, thickset, it hopes desperately that he will be possessive. Taking new master inside it's, already battered, hole will hurt a lot, it thinks sadly, if new master invites a friend too, Witcher shivers, especially if it's the shouty one. Witcher doubts that the shouting man will be pleasant to it.

"Geralt, do you want water?" New master asks again.

As discreetly as possible Witcher looks left and right to check who master might be talking to. 

"Geralt?"

Master's hand taps on it's chest and Witcher realises that it has a new name as well as a new master.

"Yes, master."

There is an intake of breath and the scent of fury is so thick that Witcher nearly chokes on it. It's heart sinks even further, it doesn't understand why it's standard greeting has provoked such a strongly negative response but it understands that it has failed to live up to expectations.

"It is sorry, master. It doesn't understand." It offers despairingly, it remembers all too well the terrible, terrible ordeal of changing hands. No master has ever explained their wants or desires. Instead, they bark orders and it does it's best to serve. When it is wrong they beat it until it stumbles into the correct behaviour. It repeats those actions until it's master's whimsy's change, then the beatings begin again until Witcher can figure it out. "Please, master, if you will explain to it what you want it will-"

"Fuck."

"Yes, master." It reaches out for the laces holding Master's trousers shut.

"No, fuck! No!" Master smells like master Jaskier now, that burnt sugar smell that it doesn't recognise. "Geralt, you.. Don't do that, just...Why..? Look, ok, do you want water?"

"Yes, master." Witcher admits, sadly. It hates having to admit to wanting or needing anything that can be used against it. It still has nightmares about having to admit to master Jaskier that it liked to watch the birds. Thankfully Master Jaskier was so nice, so good hearted that he hadn't hurt the birds even after Witcher had admitted that hurting them would hurt it. Master Jaskier hadn't ordered Witcher to hurt the birds either. Instead he'd waited and brought back a kitten, perhaps in the hope that Lettuce will grow up to kill the birds, that's unlikely though as Lettuce is very sweet and very, very lazy, and.... Almost certainly dead.

To it's horror it's shoulders jerk and a sound leaves it. It holds its breath but as soon as it starts breathing again the jerking hitches begin again.

"Shit, shit, fuck." Master thrusts a waterskin under Witcher's nose. "Shit, what's wrong. Hey, why are you... Upset?"

"Lettuce is dead."

"Who? Who the fuck is lettuce? Or does he mean an actual Lettuce? Fuck, I mean he was a simpleton before but fuck?"

"Lam, can you shut up?" The scarred man sighs, "you're scaring him."

" _I'm scaring him? He nearly died. He's lucky I don't kick his ass-_ "

Witcher flinches, it's ass is already so sore and it doubts that Master's brother, or lover, or possibly friend will allow it time to heal. It closes it's eyes and hopes to whatever power might want to listen that it's new master's give it oil and some time to ready itself for them. Or at least a leather belt to bite down on, all master's get so angry about screaming, it tries it's best not to but after Eist and Calanthe....

"Uh? Sorry," Lam mutters.

"Go ask the bard who or what Lettuce is." Master says and Lam shuffles off. Witcher makes a mental note that Jaskier is still alive.

"Here, water." The water skin is shoved at him again.

"Do...it should?" Witcher hesitates, it could be a trick. Master has not made any specific offer or ordered Witcher to drink. What is more likely to cause the most pain? Touching the water if it's a joke? Or not playing along and Master will beat it?

It wavers. Being offered things and losing them just as quickly is common in the early days, masters want it to have things so it will know what it feels like to lose them.

"What?"

"It should-"

"What's the problem?" Jaskier's voice floats across the clearing...Witcher realises as it looks around and takes stock of itself. 

"Lettuce is dead?" The dark haired man with the scars semi asks semi states.

"Uh? No, he's not." 

Witcher turns hopeful that Jaksier isn't lying to him. "Master? Lettuce?"

"He's ok, big cut and he's pretty shook up. You guys can look after each other as you get better."

"Lettuce is alive?" It must be true because it's _Jaskier_ , but it remembers seeing Lettuce's little body crumple and the blood before it was taken away.

"Very much so. Why don't you all come back to camp and you can see for yourself?"

Witcher glances at master, presumably they were hidden away from the camp for a purpose, and it imagines that it's because master doesn't want to share. It just needs to grit it's teeth through the welcome that master has planned for it and then, perhaps, it'll be allowed to see Lettuce again.

"Yeah, come on, Geralt, let's go. You can see Lettuce."

Baffled at this master's easy capitulation Witcher obeys getting gingerly to it's feet and walking after it's master's. Jaskier chatters the whole time. All of it inane little pieces of information but nothing Witcher wants to know. Like where are they? Who are these people? What happened in Cintra? No information is forthcoming so it limps along as best it can trying not to get too frightened by all the changes. It will be alright or it won't either way there's nothing it can do.

The camp is small, a fire is burning and there are five people walking around, cooking and getting set up. One he recognises as 'Lam' the others he has no idea about. 

"Hey, Rena? Can Geralt have Lettuce for a bit? He's missed him!"

Witcher stands awkwardly, not wanting to ask itself and feeling really uncertain about apparently having a name and a gender now. Or is it a trick? Are they waiting for it to respond to a name like a person then punish it for the assumption? Or is not responding to the name disobedience? It's head hurts with trying to puzzle everything out.

"Sure!"

Oblivious or uncaring of it's anxiety, the woman gets up and ducks into a tent, returning quickly with a blanketed bundle. She carries it as though it's a baby.

"Here he is, here's your daddy." She tells the bundle, Witchers heart sinks. It's not Lettuce.

"It doesn't have a baby."

The woman looks at him strangely, "he's a cat."

"Yes, mistress." The cautious relief is back. 

She peels the blanket back and Lettuce's big blue eyes gaze up. The cat blinks then begins the plaintive cry that he makes instead of mewing, angry cat yells to demand that Witcher pick him up.

"Lettuce." It whispers the kitten's name so relieved it could cry.

"He's ok." The woman reassures, holding the kitten out to him.

"It can...?"

"Of course," Jaskier snorts, "he's your cat."

Witcher hunches its shoulders glancing at news master, trust Jaskier to suggest that a slave owns anything and put it into the position of having to either disagree with a free man and correct Jaskier or say nothing and give his new master the impression that it thinks it can own things. "It...?"

"He's cute."

Witcher startles as angry master softens at the sight of the cat. 

"He just reminds you of Aiden."

"Fuck off."

Confused it bites it's lip up until blood spills.

"Don't bite," Jaskier chides, and Witcher spits it's lip out hurriedly before Master finds out it's been told about that before. Lots of times before. Gods, it is going to look untrainable.

Lettuce makes his mind up for all of them by pitching out of the woman's hands and only avoiding falling onto the floor when Witcher manages to catch him. 

"See, now he reminds me of Aiden."

"Fuck off." The angry man hits master and Witcher almost falls over with fright. If this man is violent towards master then what will he do to it?

"Pack it in," Jaskier orders, "you're scaring him."

"Oh? We are supposed to be lectured by a bard who left him in that hole to be tortured!" The angry man lives up to his name and at the yelling Witcher jumps so hard he almost drops Lettuce. At the jolt both of them make sounds of pain.

Witcher quietly through clenched teeth and Lettuce loud and objecting.

"Well-"

"Enough." Scarred man says, "let's get some food and see if we can get a few hours of sleep before the others come to get us."

"I don't see why we couldn't have portaled to the castle?"

"The whole area is under protective spells, no one can portal in or out for 5 leagues in any direction. It's what has kept us safe for almost a century." Master tells Jaksier. 

"Ah, but Wit-Geralt really could do with being indoors-"

"Do we look like idiots, bard?"

Witcher flinches away from the angry man and master glares.

"Lam, will you either relax or go after Aiden?"

Lam looks chastened, "sorry." He swipes a hand over his face, "come on, Geralt. Let's get something to eat."

It's an order so it turns and follows holding Lettuce close.

"It's so odd to have you back. I guess you're feeling a bit tired? Don't worry in a month you'll feel much better.”

 _What’s happening in a month?_ It wants desperately to ask, but it know better than to try. 

Instead it trudges after master hoping against hope that Master doesn't want to hurt it yet. 

"Here," master hold a plate of food out and cautiously it takes it and holds it in one hand. 'Here' means to take it, it doesn't mean to it eat it. So it holds the plate away from its body with one hand while still clutching Lettuce with the other.

Lettuce rubs against it's neck and chin and it let's the comfort of the warm furry body calm it.

"We'll head up to the castle in the morning. Be good to see the old place again, right Geralt."

It blinks, "um, yes, sir?" 

"It took a long time to rebuild but it's almost like it was before, you'll barely notice the change!"

Sweat breaks out along its brow, the only castle it's ever been to beyond Cintra was the one it was sent too about two decades ago as a reward for the young noblemen. 

It has been some of the longest months of its life, in the end despite all the training and all the efforts it had taken to be good, to please, to prepare itself, it's body had still required more than a month with the healers before it had been fit enough to go back into service.

"You're nervous?" The angry man says, "don't be everyone is really looking forward to seeing you."

Witcher nods, beyond grateful for whatever was done to it that means it cannot cry, it knows it would be weeping with terror if it could. At least this way it will look as though it is facing it's fate with a modicum of bravery, but gods it wants to. _'Everyone,'_ it thinks as it's stomach clenches.

"So don't worry."

Witcher makes a huge effort not to as it's collar begins to react, shockingly painful for a minor burn. "May it, please, put something down?"

It gestures with its head as best it can down at it's hands. 

"Sure."

It sets the plate down and gently probes it's neck with a finger tip, making absolutely certain not to touch the collar.

"Yeah, it looks a bit sore. That'll heal up overnight though."

"Yes, sir."

The angry guy shakes his head, "Lam! Remember?"

"Uh, it-"

"Don't worry, I get it, old habits and all that."

Thankfully it is spared from replying by the arrival of Jaskier and new master, who reappear with the young woman in tow. "-don't you two dare fight," she lectures as they approach, and Witcher stiffens,are they fighting over it? Surely not...but it is worth money? Tense and miserable, it hugs it's arms around Lettuce, grateful for the thousandth time that Lettuce is so friendly and loves to be held. "Geralt," it's heart sinks, "needs structure and routine, not for you two, you three," she point accusing fingers, "to fight and make things even more difficult than they need to be. Am I clear?"

To it's amazement, all three men shrink into themselves and mumble agreement.

"Right," she sighs, "get the camp ready, find somewhere for Geralt to sleep, somewhere private and secu- safe." Witcher doesn't miss the slip, she means a prison, it hopes there will not be restraints. "Safe and private." She reiterates.

The scarred man wanders off but Jaskier ignores her and sidles up. "Big change, huh?

"Yes, sir."

"Don't worry about Gen, I've been nicknaming her, _the general,_ she's great, she's the one who told these guys about you."

So bewildered it honestly considers that it might, after all, be able to overcome it's monsterous nature and form tears, it fumbles for any kind of response.

"Yeah, I told her about you last winter, I didn't know she was an abolitionist but, well, here we are."

 _Thank all the gods, that at least is easy agreement._ "Yes, sir, here."

"And...well, by this time tomorrow, should be good, huh? Lam talked to you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ok, great, great, you look exhausted, bed time?"

"Yes, sir." What can it do but agree? Even as the place between it's legs screams with pain in time with it's heart beat, three men a woman and a couple of others it can hear but hasn't met. Tonight is going to be awful.

Thankfully, they don't make it eat before showing it to it's private tent, it cannot even begin to imagine the fury of its betters if it vomits over them on it's first day. Thankfully it's stomach is empty so it doesn't need to worry about making a mess even without being able to clean itself out so it has one small consolation to hold onto. Things could be worse.

"Things are going to be so much better now," Jaksier says as he tugs a blanket over it, "you'll see. Try to sleep, you look exhausted."

"It will try, master." It is grateful for the instructions, it's had master's that have wanted it to play dead, or at least unconscious, when they played with it, it would not have guessed that these master's wanted the same thing without Jaskier's help. "Thank you, sir."

Jaskier laughs, pets Lettuce and pays Witcher on the shoulder. "See you in the morning."

It hugs the blanket around itself, wishing it had been brave enough to ask for oil, but it knows how stupid it would have been, it gets what it deserves and clearly it hasn't earned oil yet. It will need to figure it out quickly. 

It lies awake, waiting.

No one comes.

"Geralt! Time to get up! We are moving out!"

It gets up at once, eager to demonstrate it's obedience in all things, perhaps if it shows how well it listens they won't punish it too much? It doesn't even dare to hope that they might be impressed with its obedience and find some other manner for it to serve in, down that fantasy path lies only disappointment. It had hoped when chaning hands in the past that it's new master's might see fit to use it for something, anything, else but so far from its first placement at the brothel onwards it has been used a sex toy or punching bag depending upon the whim of its owner.

"Geralt, you look like shit." Angry master declares. 

Witcher blinks, before unraveling the hidden order, wishing that master's would speak plainly, "sorry, sir."

Angry shrugs, "who likes sleeping out of doors? I can't wait to get back to my bed, can you?"

"No, sir." It forces the words out. "It can't wait." 

They pack up and start walking, the pace is too quick and it struggles to keep up. It digs down mentally to find something, anything in its mind to distract it from the fatigue and pain, a lot of things it needs to do to please it's master's, what orders has it been given.

  1. Look better. Witcher turns the problem over and over in its mind. How can it achieve such as feat? It can bathe if they allow it, or scrub clean in a stream or water butt if there is one. What else can it do to improve it's poor appearance to please?
  2. Not worry. It wants to give up the task as impossible but forces itself to look at the problem. It just needs to accept, as it's trainers are always telling it. It doesn't own its body so it cannot have an opinion on how it is used. It doesn't own it's mind so it has no right to weaponise it's emotions at it's betters. 



It's not a long list but it feels insurmountable. Stress pricks at it when it realises that by fretting over the list it is breaking the second order. Clever it thinks grudgingly, very clever. These master's are going to be tricky. It will need to pay close attention and think very carefully about what is being said to it and what they really mean.

In case that made you sad... enjoy this gif

Lettuce telling Geralt to stop talking to Gen and pick him up already.


	4. Chapter 4

Don't faint.

Do not faint.

Do not faint.

It repeats the words to itself as it walks one step in front of another.

Do not faint.

It's head is light and it's body is shaking with effort. It must not collapse, it needs to keep going. One foot in front of the other until it is given permission to rest.

One knee falters and it half collapses onto hands and knees, a hand comes down onto its back, it can hear someone speaking - probably chiding it for it’s misbehaviour, but it can’t hear over the roaring in it’s ears. It needs to get up, hands and knees is dangerous at the best of times, but surrounded by free men is so vulnerable that panic echos in its brain until it can’t even think past it. It gets back up, somehow and keeps staggering, blind and deaf to everything but the need to keep moving as ordered.

“Whoah!” Jaskier’s voice cuts through the haze a little, “you need a break!”

“Yes,” it agrees, too worn down and afraid to risk lying.

“Come on, then. Sit, sit.”

“Sir, the others-”

“Are ready for a break too, right, guys!” Jaskier calls over his shoulder and all the others call back their agreements. “Seriously, Geralt, sit down before you fall down."

It lets its legs give way again and collapses to sit on one hip, anything to spare it’s ass what it can. The scarred man comes and sits next to him, his face is creased with an emotion that Witcher struggles to identify but makes him look away.

“You ok?”

“Yes, master.”

“Geralt, do you...who am I?”

Witcher looks down at the ground, the roaring sound in it’s ears is back, it wets it’s lips with it’s dry tongue and tries to gather it’s thoughts. “You are,” it tries, it’s voice is a reedy whine, “you are..” It occurs to Witcher that it’s head is on the grass and it tries to sit up, it has been asked a question and somehow it lucked out with an easy one. 

Who is that man? He is master, easy. 

It just needs to sit up and make it’s mouth move.

  
  


Jaskier hears Eskel swear and hurries back over in time, from where he'd stepped away to give Eskel a moment, to see the glassy eyed dread slide off Witc- Geralt’s face to be replaced by only the whites of his eyes showing and slack jawed unconsciousness. “What did you do?”

“I asked if he knew who I was.”

“Exactly which part of Geralt being almost unconscious with exhaustion said ‘pop quiz’ to you?”

Eskel grunts while tugging Geralt to lie on his side and adjusting his head so he can breathe more easily. Even mostly or possibly even completely unconscious Geralt twitches and his breathing falters. Lettuce appears and rubs against Geralt’s head making the rattling sound that passes for a purr before making the indignant yowl that means he wants Geralt to hold him. Conscious Gerlat would snap to and scoop up the protesting feline, now the white eyelashes flicker and Geralt makes a clear attempt to wake.

“Leave daddy be.” Jaskier scoops Lettuce up and holds him in his arms back to chest as though holding a cranky baby. “He isn’t well.”

Eskel glances down. “I will send Lam for Aiden and horses-”

“Ask for a cart.”

“Why he can ride.”

“I mean? Can he? He hasn’t since I met him and he looks like a breeze would blow him out of the saddle. A cart will be better.” Privately, Jaskier thinks that Geralt might be too sore to ride but will do as he thinks he’s being commanded despite the personal risk. He also has no intention of giving away Geralt’s secrets unless the other man asks him to speak on his behalf. Enough people have taken enough privacy from Geralt for him to take any more.

Eskel sighs, “yeah, you might be right, bard.”

“Jaskier.”

“What?”

“That’s my name. He saw enough dehumanising behaviour there, don’t do it here. Even if it’s not aimed at him he will take it that way.”

Eskel bundles Geralt into furs in the cart, tucking him in like a mother does with her child, tender and so loving that Jaskier has to look away. There is a century of grief, mourning and adoration wrapped up in a single movement and it hurts to look at.

Lettuce sits on Geralt’s chest and complains in between butting up against the man’s chin and tapping at his face with an imperious paw. ‘Do not ignore me, father.’ Jaskier imagines he is saying, ‘wake up and tend to me.’

The cart moves faster than they did but it is still a long journey on rough terrain and it is growing dark when they draw into the bailey of the old castle. The door of the keep is open in welcome and light spills out into the courtyard.

“Hey, wake up.” Eskel nudges Geralt’s shoulder gently. 

Geralt sits up so fast he lets Lettuce slide to the ground and the cat complains in even louder volume than before. Despite a day’s rest he looks unbelievably tired, dark shadows under his eyes and body shivering with fatigue. “Master?” he rasps, staring straight ahead at Eskel’s chest, “how can it be of service?”

“We are home.”

Jaskier can see Geralt looking for the order behind the words, trying to match it to one he knows and the growing panic beneath the expressionless mask when he can’t, evidenced in the increased trembling. “Come on, Geralt.” He steps in before Geralt can descend into the state of paralysed panic that Jaskier has inadvertently caused on more than one occasion. “Let’s go inside. Shall I take Lettuce or can you?”

At the simple request Geralt calms and Jaskier feels the old disgust at himself return, he shouldn’t be doing this, he is just continuing Geralt’s abuse. 

It does work though, he can’t deny the results as Geralt climbs carefully out of the cart holding his cat and looking left and right with wide, bewildered eyes. “It fell asleep? It is sorry, master.”

“You passed out.” Eskel says and Jaskier hears the kindness and concern in his words.

Judging from the pallor of Geralt’s agonised face he hears only rebuke.

“It doesn’t matter.” He steps in before Geralt can work himself into a terrified frenzy, “you aren’t in any trouble. You slept soundly like a good boy.”

The relief on Geralt’s face is worth the disgust on Eskel’s.

“Come on,” he coaxes, “it’s warm inside.”

At his urging Geralt takes one small step, then another, following, with all the enthusiasm of the condemned going to the noose, into the keep.

_ Fuck. _ Is his first thought, he’d told them, he’d told them and they hadn’t listened. There is a party going on, a celebration, and while he gets it, it shows just how they don’t. He had warned them that the last, the absolute last thing that Geralt would want would be a party, the noise and being the centre of attention would be bad enough but he’s heard enough to deduce that the only parties Geralt has been to that he really remembers were ones where  _ he was the party entertainment! _

And, yes, fuck, Geralt is gray and looking close to vomiting.

“My boy!” A grey haired, late middle aged man comes moving towards them like a ship over an ocean. The crowd parts around him, “my sons, you have brought home my boy.”

Geralt vomits.

  
  


Immediately, everyone in the room does the wrong thing. Jaskier would be impressed with their ability to manage to do absolutely the worst things they can do without realising if he wasn't appalled. Half the room descends on Geralt asking, their voices too loud and too urgent, 'are you alright?' 'are you going to be sick again?' and a hundred other questions that send Geralt reeling into a tiny ball, arms over his head. The rest begin to shout at the first half to 'get back!' and 'give him space' the result is a carcophony of noise and a traumatised Witcher huddled in the center. To Jaksier's shock the other Witcher's recoil, hands over their noses and mouths, looking sick themselves. Jaskier takes advantage of their shock to shove forwards and crouch at Witcher's side. "Hey, hey, hey, you're ok, you're ok. You're good. You've been good. It's ok, it's ok, it's ok." He half sings the words to the tune of a lullaby, the words of it are long forgotten so he makes do. 

It takes an hour for Geralt to uncurl from his protective little huddle. At once he goes from one extreme to the other, fast enough that Jaskier can see the moment the Witcher's would have gotten whiplash if it wasn't for their enhanced bodies, Geralt sits up, pulls the blank mask down over the horrified terror and returns to the role of slave without blinking. 

"It is sorry, master, it has behaved disgracefully before the court. It asks for forgiveness and submits to whatever punishment you deem appropriate." The silence is so total Jaskier wonders if he's done deaf.

"My boy," the older Witcher starts before visibly recoiling from nothing Jaskier can see. "My... Geralt, son, what happened to you?"

"You don't have to answer that." Jaskier jumps in before Gzralt takes it literally and spills every single thing that he can remember. "If you want to..." He trails off for a moment before resigning himself to the Witcher's eternal hatred, "in fact don't. Don't tell them anything unless you want to," he glares at the Witcher's in a pre emptive strike, "unless  _ you  _ want to." Geralt's eyes flicker between them wide, anxious and distressed.

"My... little one," the oldest Witcher's hand rises and then drops to his side at Geralt's flinch, "little one, I am sorry. I have.... Forgive me, I did not see, I refused to see that a celebration in your return was not in your interest." 

Geralt sways on his knees in a way that Jaskier knows from experience means he's about to start retching from stress again. 

"Can we get him a hot bath? Where are his rooms?"

"Upper East floor," Estel says, his voice shaking, "where they..." His voice breaks.

"They're waiting for you." Lambert puts in, voice much, much softer than Jaskier has ever heard it.

"Right," Jaskier says, briskly, "come on, then, Geralt, let's get you bathed and into bed. It'll be like old times."

Geralt relaxes minutely and Jaskier sighs in relief. 

"I'll bring a tub up." Estel offers.

"Thanks." Jaskier tucks a hand gently under Geralt's arm and, mindful that he is probably riddled with wounds, tugs steadily but as gently as he can. "Lambert can you bring Lettuce? Gen, medical kit, please? Uh, if there is anything really easy on the stomach then can you send up a tray? I'm talking broth or a thin stew."

The stuff they give to invalids and the dying he doesn't say but all the face's in the room reflect the meaning back at him.

Lambert carries Lettuce and leads the way up the tower and what Jaskier has not reason to disbelieve is the East floor, into a cramped set of rooms that have space for a wash tub to be set down. There are two beds, one clearly slept in and the other made up.

"That's Eskel's." Lambert whispers even though they both know Geralt can hear. "Should he move?"

"Yes." Blunt but to the point Jaskier knows. "Give him space."

"They roomed together as kids, stayed as adults. There was...a lot of love there."

"And there can be again, but not if... Look I'll explain later but not if lines get blurred while he doesn't realise that he is a person!"

Eskel appears carrying a tub over one shoulder and a large bucket of water in the other, two more Witcher's behind him both with 2 buckets, the tub is set down and filled. "It's cold-" Jaskier starts to complain, Geralt is clearly too thin and run down to be chilled.

Eskel puts a hand above the water and fire glows. Jaskier takes a step back with Geralt freaking out behind him. Eskel steps back with the water steaming.

"It's so sorry." Geralt gasps, collapsing onto his knees, "please, don't burn Lettuce."

Eskel jerks back like Geralt struck him. "I would never!" 

"It was bad! Don't hurt Lettuce!"

Eskel looks at Jaskier, his expression one of mute pleading, but Jaksier can only shrug back, he has no idea where Geralt's thought processes have taken him.

Geralt moves forward on his knees before sliding down to press his forehead onto the floor between Eskel's feet, "please, don't hurt them." 

'Go?' Jaksier mouths, nodding at the door. Heartbreak cascades across Eskel's face but he grabs a clean shirt and pants from the chest beside the bed and backs out, closing the door behind him.

Geralt doesn't move, just remains in his huddle, breathing choppy and hitching like a sad toddler's. 

"Hey," Jaskier sits down beside the tub. "Listen, the water is nice and hot, but not too hot, and Lettuce is there, in better shape than you right now." Jaskier pats the tub invitingly, "so why don't you come on and take a hot bath. I can leave or help you with the tricky bits." It's enough of an established routine that he thinks that Geralt will be able to calm just with that if they are lucky. A bath and the familiarity might be enough, along with the fact he looks half dead from exhaustion to lull him back to serenity and from there into sleep.

Geralt must take it as an order because he gets up, jaw set, determination written across his features. Jaskier bites back a sigh.

"Come on."

Geralt strips like he always does, eyes averted and shame radiating off his body, before climbing gingerly into the water. The water must sting as his face is very tense but once his shoulders are under the steaming water he relaxes degree by degree.

Jaskier waits until the medical supplies, the food and the bathing supplies, thank all the gods Gen is a better forward thinker than he is for remembering to bring those, arrive before he does anything else.

"Here," he rubs soap into a rag and places it into Geralt's hand, " you do that and I'll wash your hair." He uses the time while Geralt cleans his arms and legs not just to wash Geralt's hair but also to check him for injuries. He finds quite a few, bite marks, bruises and a couple of deep cuts. "I am going to clean these." He touches the bitemarks, "they could get infected if I don't."

Geralt holds still and doesn't fuss despite the sting.

"Do you have any other injuries?"

"Yes."

"Any that you want to show me or that will be serious if you don't show me."

"No, sir."

"Ok, are you hungry?"

"It doesn't know, sorry, master."

"That's ok, you've not eaten for a while so your body will have stopped recognising the signals that you need food. Try a little broth, if it stays in your stomach you can have more. Let's see if Lettuce is hungry too." He hands a bowl to Geralt who obediently dips the spoon into the bowl and then raises it to his mouth. Lettuce weaves around yowling until Jaskier gives him some fish at which point he settles. "You're a spoiled beastie," he says affectionately ruffling the cat's thick fur.

Geralt watches from eyes that are sliding shut. 

"Hey, why don't you get out of the bath and into something warm." Jaskier suggests, "then get into bed. A good night's sleep will help and tomorrow we have loads to do." Geralt's back goes tense enough that one of the bite marks cracks open and begins to bleed. "Nothing scary," Jaskier reassures, "we need to try and have a look at your collar. I want to take it off, and you need more clothes, those are rags." Geralt doesn't look particularly comforted.

"May it ask a question, please, Master?"

"Yes, and you can call everyone by their first name if you feel comfortable doing so."

"Uh? It...um,"

"Ok, too much too soon. What was your question?"

"What is it's job here?"

"To get better." Jaskier assures. "Only that."

He patches the wounds that he can and leaves the medical supplies. "If you have any other injuries that need tending to then use this," he gestures, "I am going to get you night clothes, I'll be a few minutes."

It takes more like ten before he can find something suitability warm that won't drown Geralt's thin frame. Eventually they settle on an undershirt, leggings and a night shirt over the top when nothing else looks likely.

Geralt is still standing shivering and looking nervous but calms when he sees it's just Jaksier. "Here. Should be warm and cosy."

He busies himself dragging extra blankets onto the bed while Geralt dresses, with all the wobbly legged finess of a baby deer. "Right, sleep well. There are loads of blankets and the fire is stoked up. You should be warm enough. If you're not I am on the same floor as you. Three doors down on the same side, got that? Good, well, good night. Do you want to keep Lettuce? Or should I take him?"

"Whatever Master wishes." Geralt says but his eyes are fixed on his kitten and his hands flex gently.

"Ok, can you look after him? He's missed you and he likes you better anyway."

Geralt looks as quietly pleased as he ever does.

Jaksier shuts the door behind him, braces himself and heads back down to the Great hall where all the Witcher's are waiting, along with assorted Witches, Warlocks and other creatures that were apparently only myths, right up until you were face to face with them. 

He shakes his head, what a day. What a few days.

The Great hall is sober, the mood restrained and unhappy a far cry from the joviality when they had first arrived.

"Jaskier!" Gen calls when she sees him and he heads over. "How is he?"

"Exhausted." Jaskier offers, "he's got quite a few open wounds and the collar burned his neck pretty badly."

"That should have healed!" Lambert interjects, "it was there yesterday."

"Well, I'd say tell that to the burn but if you go and wake Geralt and scare him into another panic attack I may have to murder you." Jaksier snips, "it's still there, does starvation dull healing?"

"Yeah?" Eskel says, looking at Vesemir.

"Yes," the older Witcher confirms, "but it has to be very bad and really prolonged for it to really impact the mutagens."

"Well, a hundred years will do that." Jaskier shrugs.

"That's probably why he is a bit confused too."

"Yes," Jaskier says, relieved that they seem to understand now.

"Starvation can cause dementia like symptoms."

"No." Jaskier shakes his head to emphasise the point. "No."

"Well, what do you think?" Lambert asked angrily.

"Lam, my b-, son, please, restraint, show restraint. Jaskier knows a lot about Geralt and can help us."

"He didn't help before."

"I-" Jaskier starts.

"He didn't know there was an abolitionist movement." Gen says helpfully, "he had no idea at all."

"And," Vesemir says firmly, "he is a human with a human lifespan and human concerns. It is not surprising that he had to worry about his career and his own affairs. He could not retreat to his own castle and wait for a century until the tides change and for humanity comes to it's senses." Vesemir wags a finger. "And he could just as easily say why didn't we look for Geralt."

Lambert splutters, "we did! We looked and we went to rescue him."

"Would you have succeeded without Jaskier opening the gate? Without him showing you to Calanthe's bedroom? Would you have escaped with Geralt without his help?"

Both Lambert and Eskel look away. There is a long pause. "No." Eskel finally admits, he sounds like it is costing him a great deal to admit. "If he hadn't been there right after Calanthe and the king died I don't think we would have escaped. Or we would have had to just grab Geralt and run." Eskel swallows, "he was pretty hysterical."

"He was in agony." Jaskier corrects, "the collar nearly burned this throat out."

"Yeah," Eskel acknowledges, "but without you keeping him calm while we dealt with the bodies I am not sure how it would have gone. He didn't even seem conscious."

"I don't think he was." Jaskier agrees, Geralt had been whimpering and twitching under his hands as he'd tugged the leggings up and the shirt down over the others body, while the other Witcher's had murdered the guards that had come running to check on the disturbance before arranging Eist and Calanthe in their bed and pulling the blankets up enough that at a glance it hadn't looked suspicious once all the corpses of the guards had been hidden. They had all escaped by simply walking down the servants stairwell, supporting Geralt between them and walked out of the city past the Nilfguardian who were prepared to look the other way for the men who had aided them by killing the Queen of Cintra.

Lambert opens his mouth, shuts it and then pauses. "What did they do to him?"

Jaskier wishes that he and Gen were alone, he'd love to ask her how much he could, he should say without trampling over Gerelt's privacy. How much is need to know?

"They...they beat him, starved him. The collar he wears punishes him harshly for almost everything." Jaskier says after a moment to think about it. He can always speak more later but he can never unsay details that Geralt wants to keep secret. Until he's had a chance to speak to Geralt when the other man is less hazy with fear, exhaustion and pain it isn't right to take away his agency. "The collar fires if he misbehaves and it's really sensitive. You have to avoid saying things like 'don't worry. Or go to sleep." Jaskier rubs at his face and suddenly worries he said that to Geralt on reflex when he left. "It doesn't matter if he can't do what you ask, the collar punishes him all the same. So if you say don't worry and then he's frightened or upset it hurts him, and then, naturally, he's upset, so it hurts him. It's a really vicious cycle."

Eskel puts his face in his hands for a moment before dragging them down and exhaling hard, "shit." He says heavily. 

"What does help?" Vesemir asks and Jaskier thinks he is going to like the older man.

"His cat. Really simple language, nothing that could be mistaken for a threat so even as a joke, don't say anything like 'I'll kick your ass' or 'you'll regret it' he got told things like that all day every day except they really meant it. Beyond that?" Jaskier tries his best to think of what Geralt likes and draws a blank. "I don't really know. He likes animals, hot baths? He hates loud noises. He's really afraid of people touching him from behind." Jaskier shrugs. "I try to ask every time and sometimes that works, sometimes he gets confused and stressed out by me asking because that's not how things were done." He breaks off to take a drink and order his thoughts, "they taught him he wasn't a person, that he wasn't deserving of care or compassion and honestly? I think right now he's just confused by it and thinks it's some kind of trick or trap. He's a bit better than he was but I still think he's waiting for the big reveal."

Vesemir nods. "Alright, well, then that's what we need to do. Take it one day at a time and nice and slowly. If he's overwhelmed we back off and give him space. This is his home and he should be comfortable here, if he needs a break we should just let him have one."

"We need to get the collar off."

"I'll speak to Triss." Vesemir promises and Eskel relaxes, his shoulders coming down from where they had jerked up around his ears, as if he'd been expecting to have to argue with them to get his way. "Geralt should not be wearing it now but messing with it could hurt him. Let's wait for the expert."

  
  


He should wait for Jaksier, probably, although the bard did leave Geralt alone to fend for himself and even admits he doesn't know how to help. He should wait for Vesemir or Eskel though, they knew Gerelt better, before. He needs to know though, it's scary. Geralt was the White wolf. The Witcher. The most mutated ever.

The strongest, best of their kind and he's been alternately cowering and cuddling a kitten for since they dragged him out that castle, he just needs to see his big brother and see that Vesemir is right. That most of Gerelt's problems are physical.

Physical they can fix.

Vesemir was right yesterday when he said that starvation causes confusion, he has seen it in human villages, a few meals and some time will sort Geralt it has to.

He pushes the door open, "brother?"

The room is empty.

Lambert panics.

"Geralt?"

At the lack of response he goes running down the hall yelling for Eskel.

His remaining brother almost falls out of the spare room he's been sleeping in, "what?"

"Geralt's gone!"

"Fuck."

Eskel goes sprinting to raise the alarm and Lambert swallows his pride and fetches the bard.

"- but where would he go? He's safe here!"

"He won't have gone anywhere." Jaskier says for the fourth time. "He wouldn't dare. I left him there he won't disobey even an unstated order, even though it wasn't one he will hear it that way, he will be in his room."

"Well," Lambert says, suddenly furious, "that's great except, he wasn't."

"Let's check then."

The door to Geralt's room is half open and the sound of Geralt's cat making it's weird mew pours around the door. He can smell the relief on Eskel at the cat's presence, Geralt may only have been back with them for 40 hours but it is obvious that he would not leave his cat. Jaskier clearly thinks so too as he pushes the door open, pausing at the threshold, "Geralt? May we come in?"

There is a long pause and then a scuffing sound before Geralt appears from under the bed.

"Good morning, masters."

"Lambert." He can't help but correct. Then wishes he hadn't as Geralt suddenly stinks of stress and fear, so strongly that Eskel flinches at his side. "Sorry."

"Morning, Geralt. Were you more comfortable under the bed?"

The question seems to throw Geralt as he looks at Jaskier with his brow so furrowed Lambert thinks he might be able to get his eyebrows to switch sides.

"Uh?"

"Did you not like the bed?"

"It didn't touch the bed?" Geralt actually looks quite pleased with himself, puffing up a little like a boy hoping for praise.

"Oh," Jaskier smells distressed now too, "I...I guess I wasn't clear. That bed is for you." Geralt reacts either to the words or Jaksier's distress or both by rocking back and forth on his heels while biting his lip till the blood runs down his chin.

"Please, don't bite." Jaksier says and the smell of Gerelt's pain floods the room even as he releases his lip.

"Sorry, master."

"It's ok." Jaskier assures him, "did you sleep well?"

"It slept, master."

"Good, that's good. Let's find you some clothes and go for breakfast." Jaskier stretches and yawns. "We have lots to do today, like I told you yesterday."

"Going to see the Witch, master." 

"Yes, good...remembering." Jaskier says, seemingly in a heroic attempt to find something to praise. Lambert watches as Eskel mouths the words disbelievingly. "So, if I get you some clothes can you dress yourself? Do you need those injuries looking at?"

"Yes, master it will dress. No, master it is functioning."

"Right." Jaskier turns to usher them out, "Lambert, can you get him some clothes? Warm, the warmest you have. Along with boots or shoes."

"Yeah."

He finds some, he wants to bring Geralt his old things but Vesemir said not too, that the only way they could be sure he was really remembering was if they didn't fill in the gaps for him. The trousers will be too large but a belt will keep them up.

It takes less than half a second of walk-in gin with the clothes to realise that he should have let Jaskier bring them, or at least the belt. He should have let Geralt see for himself the clothes were too big and then suggested they get something to hold them up rather than just bringing a leather strap. As soon as he notices the belt Geralt edges between Lambert and the cat and apologises.

"It'll keep your trousers up. Without it they will fall down and you don't want that."

Geralt smells so strongly of terror that Lambert has to breathe through his mouth or he'll vomit as badly as Geralt did last night. "There is no need to be upset." He offers desperately, trying to see what in his last words was upsetting. "Come on, can you get dressed?"

Geralt nods but he is shaking so violently that Lambert can hear his breathing distorting around the tremors. 

"You need to calm down. Breathe deeply and calm down."

The smell of pain begins at once and Lambert groans remembering what Jaskier had said. "No, I mean. Don't calm down."

"It... it's sorry," Geralt stutters, "it doesn't understand?"

"I just... You... Clothes?" Lambert shoves the pile onto the nearest surface and backs out to get the bard. "I fucked up." He blurts bursting into the bard's room. "I scared him, I hurt him, I fucked up."

Jaksier pushes past him and sprints down the corridor. 

Lambert goes to find Vesemir.

Geralt is standing in the middle of the room quaking like he is freezing to death. 

"Here are your socks," Jaskier says, grabbing them and putting them into Geralt's hands, "can you put them on your feet?" 

Obediently, Geralt sits and after a few false starts gets one on and begins work on the other.

"Good, well done, thank you." He praises and hands over the underwear and trousers. "Let's put these on, tell me if you're going to fall over or need help and I'll help you." He waits while Geralt struggles into a pair of trousers, "good, that's good, you're very good. Ok, shirt now, then just a jumper and you're finished." The shirt takes a long time as Geralt fumbles with the buttons but he forces himself to stay calm and tries his best to project an air of calm and normality. "All done. Great!" He resists the urge to do a thumbs up like an overly excited ten year old, "let's go and get some food. You like bread and jam don't you?"

Geralt nods, one while looking fixedly qt the wall.

"Great, me too, bread and jam, my favourite, let's go and see if we can get some. Okay?"

Geralt looks longingly at Lettuce but moves forward obediently.

"Let's take Lettuce." It's at once sad and sweet to see the utter relief on Gerelt's face when he feels 'allowed' to pick up his pet and follows along holding Lettuce snuggled in his arms. Not for the first time Jaskier sends mental thanks to all the gods that Lettuce is so sweet natured and affectionate. Most cats, as far as he's aware are independent and standoffish, but Lettuce seems to adore Geralt and their simple, uncomplicated friendship is clearly a lifeline for the lonely and frightened man.

The Great hall is nearly empty but Geralt wavers anyway, Jaskier holds his breath waiting for a meltdown - he couldn't blame Geralt if he did, last night had clearly been traumatic bordering on tourtouous for him, the training wins though and Geralt shuffles in, silently, despite being pale and clammy.

On hindsight bursting into Eskel's room for the second time in one morning and blurting, "I think we should put Geralt out of his misery!" Was a mistake.

Eskel slugs him across the jaw with the strength of absolute fury. "You bastard. You goddamn bastard!" Eskel, calm, rational Eskel screeches, raining punches.

"Boys?!" Vesemir calls, sounding more curious than alarmed. "What is going on?"

"He wants to kill Geralt, and, and I won't let him. I won't let you!" Eskel is screaming again.

It's only when he hears how own words spoken that the meaning really hits him and he can't cry, Witcher's can't.

Except that clearly he's crying. No tears sure but crying all the same. Above him Eskel goes still and then moves to bury his face in his knees.

"Boys." He heard Vesemir sit and arrange his limbs so he's cross legged. "My sons, what had happened, what has changed in the last day?"

"He's not Geralt."

"He is."

"No, Geralt was...the best of us, the strongest and now...now he can't... You can't even give him a belt without... He doesn't sleep in a bed! He just holds that cat and shakes, that's no life! Are we being cruel? How much is too much?"

"Nobody is going to kill him." Eskel says and his voice is clotted and thick.

"No, no one is." Vesemir agrees. "Not even Lambert wants that. This is shock. We all hoped that he would have had placements like ours, more monster hunting or fighting and a relatively easy escape. Clearly it wasn't like that."

"Those were bad enough."

"They were." Vesemir agrees mildly, "I still, after 78 years find myself troubled from time to time about my time in the ring as a fighter. I killed many people as desperate and trapped as myself to survive. We all carry scars from this. Geralt is at the beginning of his recovery path and we must guide and support where we can."

"But..what if it's not enough?" Lambert splutters, his chest aching.

"We all loved Geralt when he was a curly, dark haired little boy, we loved him as a grumpy teen, we loved him as the White wolf. I think we have proved ourselves to be flexible and adaptable when it comes to loving Geralt, if he never improves and I hope and believe that that will not be the case, but if he never improves then we will love him still. He will be our much adored monosyllabic cat addict."

Lambert hears the air move as Eskel nods, and breathes deep the scent of his father's steadfast conviction.

"I fucked up." He admits, "I am sorry. I should not have said that. I regretted, I regret those words, I...I..I don't want him to hurt any more." The admission hurts, deep in his chest.

"Today is just a stitch in the tapestry of our lives. We have not yet got the emotional distance to be able to step back and see the full picture. Don't fret, my son, one wonky stitch does not ruin an art work. Perfection is for God not for us mortals, we will make mistakes, but we can do what we can to correct them."

"We can't unpick the stitches in Geralt's life!"

"No, no, we can't." Vesemir agrees, "all we can do is support Geralt as he tries to make sense of those stitches and smoothes out what he can. But today is one day. Tomorrow is another, don't judge yourself harshly on the actions of today. Put them into learning for a better tomorrow, can you help us, my son? Will you teach your brother and myself what you have learned about how we can support your brother?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt takes some baby steps towards recovery but no recovery is ever completely straightforward.  
> There is some switching back and forth as to who is 'speaking'.

It tries to think while Jaskier feeds it. It's been through enough masters, it's changed hands often enough to know what is going to come next.

It remembers the last time and shivers. It had not been able to satisfy the new foreman's questions no matter how it had tried and it had tried desperately hard, and had been beaten severely before being left tied to the whipping post for several days. 

The guards had made good advantage of its helplessness standing tied and immobilised and it has absolutely no desire to repeat the process at the hands of these new master's.

It racks it's brains trying to remember what it was asked and how it can answer better this time.

It makes a list of the questions it can remember and tries to think how it can answer them, wishing it has access to paper and ink so it could make some notes ready for them. 

It is so deep in thought that it almost doesn't notice when the grey haired man from the day before sits down opposite and smiles across the table.

"Good morning, Geralt. You look less exhausted today. How do you feel?"

"It is well, master. It is ready to work." It thinks about suggesting some tasks it could do to help that don't involve getting on it's back or its knees but before it can summon the courage the man replies.

"Hmm, I think you need the rest more than we have any feed for an extra set of hands but thank you for the offer. Very generous. If possible I would like you to call me Vesemir. We have met before, before the sacking, do you remember me?"

It shakes it's head, dismayed, it's failing already this is a very bad sign.

"That's alright." Master Vesemir says but he smells a bit like Jaskier does when it has been hurt by the guards. "It's been a long time. I am very glad to have you home. I know this may seem confusing or hard to believe but this is your home and you are safe here."

"Yes, master Vesemir." It choruses dutifully. It has heard variations of this speech every time it is moved and it knows the ebb and flow of the conversation well enough now to nod along.

"Jaksier is going to take you to see Triss. She is very nice and will take that awful collar off. If you have any worries or you need anything I want you to come to me."

It nods.

There is an order in there, the obvious one that master vesemir wants it to go to him but there is obviously a coded one too and it will need to figure that out.

"Where should it come to find you, master?"

Master looks and smells surprised and shame rises at the idea they think it so badly trained they are surprised that it will even attempt obedience. Unless it should already know? It opens its mouth to apologise-

"My rooms are on the floor above yours and my office is on this floor towards the west. If you get lost just ask."

"Yes, master Vesemir."

Master nods and gets up. "Anytime Geralt. You can come to me anytime."

It forces itself to nod and smile.

"Come on. Let's go to Triss and get your collar sorted."

It follows Jaskier down into the Witches rooms, there are bottles lining the walls and books across the little table. It breathes as deeply as it can without being obvious, there are no scents of blood or sex, it doesn't mean that it's blood won't be the first to be spilled but it's a relief anyway.

"Hello, Geralt."

"Hello, mistress."

The sight of the woman sets it's heart racing and it's palms go clammy with its panic.

"Are you alright, Geralt?"

It jumps even harder when Master Eskel appears.

"It is frightened of the Witch," it whispers, too overwrought to try and hide it's feelings.

Master Eskel looks surprised but he doesn't smell angry. It doesn't recognise how his master smells but he isn't angry at least.

"She won't hurt you."

"I won’t,” the witch says, her voice soft and gentle. It wants to believe her but it remembers that the Witches have helped mistresses and masters in the past. 

“She really won’t, Geralt.” Jaskier joins in. Jaskier’s assurance makes it feel a bit better because so far Jaskier has not lied to it or tried to hurt it. “She is the one I told you about, the one who will take the collar off.”

It nods but it can’t dispel all the reluctance it feels.

“If you can just sit here.” She pats a wooden bench, “then I can take a look.”

It sits obediently, and concentrates on keeping still and not panicking about havinh a mistress so close to it.

"Hey." Master Eskel drops to one knee in front of it and it struggles not to react to the change, a master shouldn't be on their knees. It should be. 

It bites it's lip and tries to work out if there is an order it missed.

"Don't bite your lip." Jaskier says and it stops, biting it's tongue inside its mouth instead. 

"Hey," master Eskel repeats, "why are you upset?"

It swallows and shuffles a little on the stool, hard against it's battered body and worries, questions like that are always loaded but it cannot lie. "It doesn't know what is happening." It settles finally, trying not to give them any ideas by admitting that it is frightened of Mistress and Master. It doesn't own its body and it should not be worried about what they might choose to do to it.

"You're having the collar removed." Master Eskel says his voice so terribly soft that it flinches.

"It's being retired?"

"Yeah." Eskel nods firmly, "I guess you could say that."

"Oh." It wonders why they bothered to rescue it if they are going to retire it. "Should it dig the hole first?"

"What hole?"

"The one for retirement."

"Geralt?" Master Jaskier asks, his voice strained, "what does retired mean to you?"

"When they cut the throats of the slaves too old or too disobedient to be kept any more." The room instantly stinks of sadness and It knows it made a mistake. "Sorry, master."

"You're not going to be hurt." Master Eskel assures and he reaches out to touch it, petting at it's knee.

"Yes, master."

"I promise you are going to be ok." Eskel repeats.

"Geralt." Jsslier says, "we are not going to kill you."

It relaxes, it's more believable that they won't kill it than they won't hurt it. Sooner or later they will hurt it.

"We won't." Mistress adds, "you are safe with us."

It nods.

"We are going to remove your collar because it hurts you."

"Yes, mistress."

"May I touch the collar."

"Of course, mistress."

She reaches out and it breathes deeply to brave itself for the pain

"Geralt, are you...will it hurt you to have the collar touched?"

"Yes, master."

"Oh," Triss says, "well, then let's put a block in."

It nods while staring at it's feet.

"What is a block, Triss" Jaksier asks and it listens closely as well.

"It will make you numb under the block."

It's heart picks up, nervous, 

"That frightens you?"

"Uh?"

"Yes," Eskel puts in for it and it fights not to look hurt at master for giving away it's secrets, undoubtedly that is what master intended for it to feel and there is no sense in giving master the satisfaction of knowing he has achieved his aims. "He's terrified."

"Maybe you should sleep while we take off the collar?" The witch offers and it nods gratefully, whatever they are planning must be awful if they want it to pass out before they even start and unconsciousness is much, much better than restraints either physical or magical.

"Alright." She touches it's shoulder and it feels all the strength leave its body as it slumps sideways.

Eskel sits at Geralt's side holding his hand and watching Geralt's chest rise and fall. Every inhale and every exhale is so precious that he wants to capture the image of them in his mind and hold onto them forever. Grief clogs his throat but relief sits in his heart at the sight of his brother, so frail and hurt, but alive.

The new skin on his neck is raw and oozing where the collar lay digging into the vulnerable flesh. The evil device lies not far away but he can't bring himself to pick it up even to dispose of it.

Geralt's eyelashes flutter and he tightens his hand on Geralt's limp one, anxious that his brother should not wake alone.

His brother's heart beat picks up and the scent of distress oozes out of his brother's pores. Reluctantly he withdraws and watches as his brother's eyes open and blink disorentatedly at the ceiling before fixing on his face. His heart sinks at the obvious terror in his brother's face as he lock's eyes.

"You're ok. The collar is off."

Geralt's eyes flicked from side to side before settling on the blanket that covers him. "Thank you, sir."

"Do you remember where you are?" He asks as gently as he can, he's been knocked out by magic before and it had left him feeling confused and dazed. There is a long moment before Geralt shakes his head and the dread in his eyes make's Eskle's heart break. "You're at Kaer Moren." Gerelt's face doesn't change at all but if anything the smell of fear increases until Eskel feels sick with it. "It's your home and you had the collar taken away, you can check."

Miserably Geralt touches his neck flinching hard as he does as though expecting something awful. He looks shocked when his fingers meet the bared flesh of his neck and his whole body shakes as though he is fitting after the trials and Eskel longs to hold him.

  
  


“It doesn’t have a collar?” 

“No, we told you we were going to take it off.” It is physically painful to watch Geralt look so lost and so confused.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you want a drink?” 

“Yes, sir.” Geralt smells regretful and afraid although Eskel cannot work out why,

“Water? Milk? We have some watered down beer?”

“Water. It likes water.” Geralt mutters and winces as soon as he has said the words, as though they pained him to utter.

Baffled Eskel gets up and is disheartened to find that the stink of Geralt’s terror increases still further once he is standing. “I won’t hurt you.”

“No, sir.” Geralt repeats, clearly saying whatever he thinks he must to appease him that Eskel gives up and trying to verbally reason with him for the time being.

“Here.” he offers the mug of water and Geralt reaches for it with all the enthusiasm of being offered a suppurating turd. 

“Thank you, sir.” he cradles the cup but makes no effort to drink.

“Aren’t you thirsty?”

“Yes, sir.” Geralt says, as wretched as though they are in a dessert miles from water rather than holding a mugful.

“Well.” he gestures.

Geralt looks from him, to the cup and back up, almost but not quite daring to make eye contact, “may it drink?”

“Oh...,” despite everything Eskel had still considered himself a clever man, an hour with Gerlat is fast disabusing him of the notion, “Yes, yes, of course, you can drink it.”

Hesitantly, Geralt takes a sip while watching carefully, gauging his reaction, Eskel notes the behaviour as something to pass onto the others, afraid of being tricked or denied even the basics necessary for survival. 

“Were you often denied food and water?”

“It did it’s best to please.” Geralt whispers looking like some new level of terror that Eskel is certain he has never even heard of, let alone seen on anyone’s face.

_ Yes,  _ he translates internally,  _ despite his best efforts Geralt was regularly starved.  _ He’d hoped that the slightness of Geralt’s build had been a winter of hard work, possibly working as a labourer or a fighter rather than deprivation. “Yes,” he assures aloud, “I am sure you were a..” the words stick in his throat but he forces them out, “a very good boy.”

Geralt relaxes and he dares to look up from under his lashes. “Thank you, sir.”

_ Gods. _

__

Master is displeased but is not giving any clues as to how it can be good. It can smell Master’s discontent and worry curdles in it’s belly, it cannot work out where it is going wrong. 

“Master?” It chances the direct route. 

“Yeah?”

“What are your orders?”

“No, no, orders.”

It’s heart sinks, it should have known better than to expect help.

“Try and get some more sleep.” Master suggests, “I will bring you some more water and some food in a little while. Is there anything you want?”

“Whatever master sees fit to give it.” It feels proud of that answer, it shows gratitude and subservience in one sentence and is dismayed when master smells of frustration and disappointment.

It eats because they have put the plate in front of it and told it to eat but the food sits leaden in it's belly. Nauseated and uncomfortable it shovels mouthful after mouthful down its throat, trying to chew as little as possible. The taste of the meat leaches out and fills it's mouth. It knows that it should be exalting, most slaves or even the servants would have been delighted to be given such a treat but all it can think about is how, whenever it had to sleep in the barn, the animals has been soft and warm and much, much, kinder to it than the humans.

It worried about needing to use the latrine too, it's earlier trip had ended with blood and it had become so lightheaded it had almost fallen. It's never eaten so much or so regularly, Jaskier had been good at giving it broths and soups and three times a day at that here they feed it all the time. Sitting it down and ordering it to eat.

It throws up after most meals but hasn't dared to tell them in case that's breaking the rules.

"He's doing a little better, isn't he?" Lambert repeats and Eskel knows he's hoping for reassurance. "I mean, he eats, he sleeps, he gets dressed. He's doing a little better."

"I..he does eat and sleep." Eskel concedes, he can see Lam  _ needs _ this. "I think that we just need to keep on going, it'll take time for him to really believe that he's safe."

Lambert nods, looking as thoughtful as he ever gets, "maybe we should get him another cat."

"No." Eskel shaking his head with as finality as he can, "no. You may love cats, but he's a wolf, he needs a puppy or a horse. Not another cat."

"He loves Lettuce."

"Geralt always has a soft spot for animals and he would love anything that he thought wasn't going to profit from his slavery."

"Great! He will remember how much he loves us then."

It rolls over in the bed that they still have not come to use it in and shivers, pulling all the blankets on top of it. 

It's sick. 

It's been sick for a few days but it has been well enough to carry on with the few duties it has been assigned, even if they don't use those words here. It had nearly been out of it's mind with worry when they hadn't found a job for it, they keep repeating for it to get better so they clearly have plans they think it would not currently survive if they acted upon them. It has had so many things done to it over the years that it cannot even begin to try and guess which must be the most awful and horrific that they must be saving for when it is well enough. It had stumbled upon answering letters quite by accident, it had been amazed to learn it could read, it hadn't remembered that it could. At least it is contributing and when they finally decide they can put it to work properly it might not have such a big debt to clear. It's chest gets even tighter with the thoughts of how much it's going to owe them when it gets put properly back into the workpool.

It needs to rest, they would probably give it a day off if it begged but that would just add to its debt. They won't tell it how much it owes and feign ignorance each time, they have been keeping up the ruse that it's not a slave well too, it's been tricked by master's before and is determined not to be caught out again.

It shivers harder as it's fever creeps higher and shoves down a wave of hopelessness, it just needs to sleep and get better and everything will be fine.

The smell of sickness is so strong that even Jaskier can smell it and he is surprised that Eskel hasn't beaten him here and hammered on the door to get Geralt straight to Triss.

"Geralt ?" He calls opening the door, "are you ok?"

Geralt is already dressed and to his astonishment looks alright.

"Yes, sir."

"Wha- are you ok?"

Geralt shifts from foot to foot, looking like a guilty, little boy. “Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure? You seem a bit...?” He trails off because it is probably a bit rude to tell someone they stink. “I thought it smelled a bit like someone was unwell in here.”

Geralt blinks and bites his lip. 

“If you are certain you’re ok, why don’t we go and get breakfast?”

It eats as ordered, the food sits in its stomach like a rock and sweat breaks out across it’s jaw.

“Fuck, Geralt, what are you doing out of bed if you’re sick?” Eskel asks his voice pitched too loud and it’s head hurts from the noise and the lights, “Jaskier, why didn’t you-”

“He said he was ok!” Jaskier protests, “was I not supposed to trust him?”

Panic rises quickly at the realisation that it has  _ lied. _ “Sorry,” it tries to push the words out as fast as it can before the punishment starts, it won’t prevent the pain that is in store, although it has a sneaking suspicion that this time it deserves everything it is going to get. “M’sorry.” It’s shaking as it tries to slide off the chair and onto it’s knees to demonstrate it’s apology publicly.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Lambert yells as both Jaskier and Eskel begin to talk their voices too loud and the sounds don’t make sense. It jumps with surprise and with the movement it’s stomach turns and it vomits all the food it had forced into it’s stomach all over the floor.

“Sorry.”

“Fuck, no, don’t apologise, you’re sick. You can’t help it.”

It wishes that the words made sense, that the veneer of kindness would rub off so it could see how bad things are going to get. It just wants to  _ know.  _

Geralt slumps into unconsciousness so quickly that not even Witcher reflexes are enough to stop him from cracking his head on the bench as he falls. Blood flows around his head in a grotesque halo and Lambert swears violently.

Dropping to his knees Eskel puts two fingers on Geralt’s neck to check for a pulse, it’s much quicker than it should be for a Witcher but its there all the same, jack rabbiting under his fingertips. The smell of infection drifts off Geralt’s prone body and as he rolls his brother gently onto his side to check his airways are clear and check the head wound.

“He’s got an infection, get Triss.” He calls over his shoulder and hears Vesemir go. “Get him some sleepwear and warm socks, oh and Lettuce, he will want to see Lettuce.” He tells Lambert knowing that his least stable brother, well prior to their current situation, will need something productive to do to keep him from going to pieces.

“How is he?” Triss asks.

“Unconscious, breathing, infection and now a head wound.” He shuffles to the side and watches as she moves her hands and mutters. 

“He’s split the skin but there is no damage beyond the superficial.”

Eskel breathes out a sigh of relief. "And the infection."

She concentrates then sways going a grey colour. The bitter scents of sadness and guilt billow into the air and Eskel recoils automatically before forcing himself to breathe through his mouth. "What? Is he really sick? What does he need? We can get it for him. Just say and I will get it."

"Eskel, it's not...let's get him into the sanatorium and I'll..." She visibly shakes herself, "I need to contact a few of my sister's for help, but we can fix up the physical injuries. He'll need support though."

Eskel nods, an unacknowledged worry closes cold fingers around his heart. "He...when we first got him out a said 'fuck' and he...tried to undo my pants."

Triss closes her eyes briefly and nods. "I will get my sisters, we can heal this, Eskel."

Swallowing hard and blinking to keep the ache of non functioning tear ducts from blurring his vision anyway, he worms his arms under Geralt and lifts, cradling the other man's body close to him. "He's really light, even still."

"He may...going to...uh, eating may have caused him some problems. Once we sort him out physically we can sort him out mentally and emotionally." She smiles bravely and Eskel wants to let her words comfort him.

Setting Geralt down is hard.

The way his pale lashes flutter and the expression of dazed confusion and alarm that spread over his face as he comes around enough to realise he is on a bed.

"You're safe." Eskel whispers as reassuringly as he can. Geralt goes still, the kind of still prey goes when it smells a predator and the scent of bone deep terror rises. 

"He doesn't know it's you." Triss whispers, and she grimances as Geralt flinches even from her voice.

_ Fuck, Calanthe _ .

"Stay with him and see if you can keep him calm while I xenovox the others." She steps out and the door closes.

Geralt eyelashes flutter closed and his heart sinks back towards a more normal rhythm. Eskel aches to touch his shoulder or take his hand but can't bring himself to do so in case he makes everything worse. He waits for Triss while wishing he had killed Calanthe more slowly, a broken neck was too easy, if he'd known, if he'd let himself see rather than bury... He should have taken her with them and taken her to pieces bit by bit.

Geralt whimpers before biting back the sound and the oft abused lip cracks and bleeds. Eskel dabs at the little wound, clearing his mind, he must stink of stress, anger and violence to Geralt, he is adding to his brother's pain, not reducing it. 

"Hi, Eskel."

"Yen."

"Triss told me...she said...she thinks..."

"She's almost certainly right."

"I can't believe it, I mean,-"

"You need to start believing and start fast, don't you dare,  _ don't you dare,  _ even suggest that he hasn't suffered or that, that this was not a true ordeal for him, just because-" he breaks off at the sight of tears in her eyes. "I...im-"

"No, I am sorry. I didn't mean it like that, just I thought... I thought that we would  _ know _ . Somehow, if he was in pain I thought we'd just know and I didn't."

"I think I did. I mean, it all adds up, he tried to...touch me the first day, I sort of didn't think about it, I mean, he was so lost and confused, I thought, I thought it didn't mean anything or that I could just, I don't know, will it away. As thought if I didn't, didn't say or really see what had happened then maybe it wouldn't have...Gods, I was, am, fuck am so gods damned stupid."

"No." Her hands are soft where she touches his shoulder, "no, you loved, love, love him so much, we can all see that. It hurts so much to see someone you love in distress you'd rather take a wound then let them suffer." His breath shudders and he can't bring himself to look at her, too afraid of seeing sympathy, he will break down himself. "You shouldn't be so nice to me." He grits out from between clenched teeth, "I left him to suffer."

"No one has managed to handle this well. Somehow despite years of planning we have managed to do a pretty poor job."

"It's not like...this isn't what I imagined."

"Me neither."

He almost asks what she had pictured by doesn't, he doesn't want to, can't share his own imaginings. They are too private and too painful now to share.

_ Maybe one day,  _ he thinks as he watches the other witches come to circle around his unconscious brother, ready to heal him.  _ Maybe one day. _

Sitting beside Geralt’s unconscious body is becoming a habit, one that he hates and loves in equal measures. Hates because it is a reminder of how close he came to losing Geralt, could still lose him despite the mutations, and loves it because asleep is the only time that Geralt’s brow smoothes out and the haunted slump of his shoulder eases.

Geralt slumbers on, his cat curled between his neck and shoulder and making the rattling sound that it makes instead of purring. It seems to soothe Geralt as his heart beats slower and more steadily with the cat than without.

Eskel sinks further into the chair and means his head against the padded side, he pulls the blanket further up his body, closes his eyes and listens to the steady thrum, thrum, thrum of Geralt's heart.

The change in the pattern brings him out of the semi doze he'd fallen into, he sits up rubbing his eyes. "Geralt?"

Geralt stirs a little more, blinking and making the little huffing sound he has made on waking since he was a child. “M’Eskel.”

He means ‘Master Eskel’ but it sounds so close, so unbearably close, to ‘my Eskel’ that his heart leaps before crashing.

“I am here.” he says quietly enough to not startle, Geralt or the cat, but hopefully loud enough to cover the sounds of his heart breaking. “How do you feel?”

“It...better, master.”

“Good, that’s good. You had a bad infection, it had moved into the bones of your pelvis and it took a bit to shift. You need to take it really easy for a day or two.” Or more like a decade or two but he can’t say that without Geralt having a heart attack. “I need to discuss a few things with you, I don’t think we have been clear enough.” A range of emotions skitter across Geralt’s face, misery, fear, dread and finally relief. “I know what your previous masters and mistresses used you for...they raped you, right?”

“No, master.”

Eskel pauses, feeling hope rise, desperate to know he’d been wrong and that Geralt’s time as a slave, while clearly appaling, had at least spared him such ordeals. “No? No-one... had sex with you?”

Geralt’s face goes very still, his whole body going tense and still. "Yes." 

"Oh," regret bubbles up at asking Geralt, even inadvertently to speak of this, "well, here that is not going to happen. Ever." He wants to add unless you want it later on but knows that there can be no blurred lines. "You're safe here." He knows that Gerzlt won't, just isn't able to believe him yet but it still feels awful when his brother just shakes and covers his face with his hands.

"It doesn't understand." Geralt whispers, harsh and agonised.

Eskel fights the twin urges to cry and hold Geralt, it'll do more harm than good, "I know you don't, but that's ok, we are going to help you. It'll be ok."

"Do you want to hear about it's training?"

"Do you want to tell me?" He doesn't want to hear it particularly, but if Geralt wants to talk, wants to be heard then Eskel will do whatever it takes to hear him.

"It has been trained to satisfy. It knows better than to leave a master or a mistress unsatisfied."

"I'm satisfied to know that you're here and you're getting better."

"It doesn't understand." Geralt repeats, his eyes huge and agonised.

"I know." Eskel looks around the room, hoping for inspiration, the perfect words to make Geralt understand, "I...I'm like Lettuce. I just want to be your friend."

Geralt blinks and Eskel wants so badly to hold him close that he has to jam his hands into his pockets to prevent it. "It hasn't got any friends. Tools don't need friends, it is frivolous."

"You're a person. And don't you want friends?"

Geralt pulls the same face he had as a child, a teen, a young man, when he'd been caught out wanting things he could have. 

"I'm your friend." Eskel nods down at Lettuce, "me and him. We're your friends. I know, I know it's hard to understand, hard to trust, you've been...well, honestly, tortured and treated like... I don't even know, but inhumanely, but can you think about it. Not trust I know it's too soon, but just think about that I want to be your friend?"

"It will." Geralt promises solemnly, "how long will it stay here?"

"How long?"

"Before it is returned to mistress?"

Eskel pauses to consider getting Yen to check if Geralt has a head injury. "What makes you think you're going back?

"It...it's not being retired? It's not got a job here?"

"You can't go back to Calanthe." Eskel says at last, unsure of what else he can say to reassure Geralt. " She's dead."

Geralt starts, "dead?"

"Yeah, I snapped her neck." Eskel makes the appropriate jerking gesture into the air.

"Dead?"

"As a doornail." 

"Oh." Geralt seems most on the enormity of her death, Eskel takes a small step back wondering if he had made a terrible mistake telling Geralt. "She...she...it thought she was going to be very angry with it for being captured."

"Didn't you know she was dead?"

"It...once it saw the witches?"

"Were there witches in Cintra?"

"Sometimes."

"And did they hurt you?"

"They transferred the collar when Mistress was away." Geralt says slowly, "but now mistress is dead?"

"Yes," Eskel confirms, suddenly recognising the Geralt he's talking to, Geralt as a very little boy had once climbed into his bed afraid of the winds which he'd thought might be the monsters from their lessons. As a boy a whole season of perhaps even a year older Eskel had been the one he'd come to for reassurance and comfort. He remembers stroking curls and repeating endlessly that it was just the wind, no monsters would come in. "Yes, she's dead. The monster is dead and it's not coming back, Geralt. You're safe. I know you've got a sense of smell at least as good as mine, do I smell like I'm lying?" 

There is a long, long pause as Geralt simply breathes in and out. Eskel watches him, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his back as he breathes.

"No, sir."

"I promise you, she is dead, and you and Lettuce are safe." He risks pulling his hands out of his pockets and taking hold of the edge of Geralt's blanket. "Now, lie down and try to get some more sleep." Warily Geralt lies back and Eskel tucks the blanket around his slight frame, giving into the urge to brush a few errant strands of Geralt's forehead. "Good night."

"Good night, sir."

It wakes to Mr. Eskel snoozing in the chair and takes a moment to think back over the night before. 

When Mr. Eskel had spoken about it's duties it had been braced to answer all the questions they normally ask it, how it has been trained, where and how long it was trained for, the questions have alway, always, always devolved into it being made to get on its knees and demonstrate it's skill. It's never, ever, come out of an interrogation about it's former placements without blood on it's thighs and an appointment with the whipping post for failing some arbitrary test that it had never been told about.

Until last night.

Mr. Eskel had barely spoken about it's duties except to promise that it wouldn't do that anymore. He hadn't said what it would do, but he had promised.  _ It could be another trick _ , it acknowledges hugging Lettuce a little tighter at the sting the thought brings. It doesn't matter if it is, it reasons, it's master's will do what they want with it anyway.

Sighing it slides quietly out of bed and shuffles out into the hall to find Jaskier and a task for the day.

“Why are you up?”

“It should...be down?”

“No, I mean you’re not well.”

It forced itself to not bite it's lip in anxiety, it knows Jaskier hates it. "It..it was healed by the Witches?" To it's horror the words come out as a question. "It was treated by the Witches." It repeats really carefully.

“Oh, good.” Jaskier says and he  _ sounds glad. _ “Well, if you’re feeling better shall we get you some broth? And Mr Lettuce some fish? You’ll like that won’t you Mr Lettuce?”

It watches Jaskier scoop Lettuce up and carry him away and follows along anxiously, it prefers to hold Lettuce even though it knows that Jaskier is very careful.

“Geralt.” Master Vesemir calls and waves them over, “are you well enough to be out of bed?”

“Should it go back to bed? Does master want it to be in bed?”

“No, no, as long as you are sure you’re well enough?”

It wavers certain there is an order it is missing out on.

“Geralt!”

It jumps and hisses as pain, less than before but still present flares, “sir?”

“Are you ok?”

“Yes, sir.” It reassures but Master Eskel’s face creases with concern anyway.

“Well, if you’re sure, lets get some broth and tea into you and see how we go.”

Feeling less sure by the second it follows and sits uneasily as Jaskier gestures and waits. 

“Here, easy on the stomach.” Eskel looks a bit guilty at handing it a bowl of soup, “in a few days we can get you something nicer.”

“Thank you, sir.” The soup is much better and tastes of beans rather than meat and for once it finishes a meal feeling better rather than worse.

“So..Lam and I thought you might like to see the stables?”

“Yes, sir.” Wariness blossoms but it can’t refuse so it follows along with Jaskier on one side and Eskel on the other.

The stables are warm and dim and smell so nicely of horse and...something else it can’t remember but it likes that it wants to be allowed to sleep in the stables too but knows better than to ask. The gentle sounds of the horses munching and the occasional sound of hooves on the floor is soothing and it finds the courage to ask, “may it pet a horse?”

“Sure.” Eskel gestures to one, “her name is Elderflower, she is friendly.”

Her nose is soft under it’s palm and once she has made sure he has no treats she is content to let him stroke her nose and lean into the warmth of her neck, breathing in the warm smell of horse and hay.

It wakes up under a blanket in a pile of hay, it panics for a moment as it tries to work out what happened today. 

Except..nothing.

It just slept all day, again.

It sits up and the blanket slips a little, it touches the blanket, a thick warm one, that smells in a way that lights up a part of its brain like the smell of the stables had. Something distant but special. 

Someone must have gone to the castle to fetch this blanket it's not a horse blanket they threw over it as a concession to the cold. They fetched it a blanket.

It touches the material reverently.

“Ahh, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?”

“It.. yes, sir?”

"Come and get some more soup?" It nods and gets to it's feet, gathering cat and blanket. Master Eskel waits patiently instead of tugging it along or hitting it to make it move faster.

It thinks about those little gestures and rubs the blanket between it's fingers.

"The blanket smells very nice."

"Oh...it's one of mine but you can keep it."

"It..." It knows better than to refuse anything it's master's want to give it but it wants to know the cost. "What does it need to do to keep the blanket?"

"Nothing, it'll make me happy to know you have it."

*************************************************

It sleeps like it has been drugged, as though it could sleep forever and still need more.

It sleeps all night and droops over the breakfast table until either Jsslier sends it to nap with Lettuce or until Eskel takes it to snooze in the stables under the watchful eye of Elderflower and the chickens.

It loves to curl under it's blanket, it doesn't smell as much like...the feeling that makes its brain itch, but it's still it's favourite blanket, and watch the chickens scratch and peck while it drifts, the sounds of a brush on fur soothing and rhymically relaxing 

*************************************************

Screams echo down the hall and Jaksier falls out of bed in fright. The room is freezing and it takes him a few chilly, terrifying moments to get a candle to light before he can pull on a coat and step out into the corridor. 

"What's happening?" Eskel asks, his whole hand on fire.

"You're on fire." Jaskier points out, still not awake despite the never ending screams.

"Its...never mind, what's going on?"

"Geralt?"

"Fuck." Eskel cocks his head and sets off at a pace that is not quite a sprint, presumably to let Jaskier attempt to keep up. "Geralt...Geralt? Are you ok? Can I come in?"

The screams are even more desperate up close and Jaskier reaches around to open the door, "Geralt?" 

Bracing himself to find Geralt bleeding to death or twisted up from infection or a curse or Lettuce dead, he shoves the door open and holds the candle up. 

Geralt is curled into the smallest ball Jaskizr has ever seen, arms thrown over his head, screaming.

"Geralt, Geralt ?!"

Eskel steps past and touches Geralt's shoulder. Immediately the noise cuts off and Geralt surges upwards, gasping like he can't breathe.

"Master!" 

Jaskier acknowledges the regression even as he steps up to kneel at the side of Geralt's bed.

"Are you ok?"

"Iii, it...it's, I.. Calanthe?"

"No," Eskel reassures, his voice deep and steady and Jaskier wants to lean against his leg and let it comfort it him too. "No, she's dead. Worm food."

Geralt blinks, shifts and the worry on his face melts to dismay and curls around himself.

"What's wrong?"

" _ He wet the bed." _ Eskel hisses undertone in elvish.

"Oh.." Jaskier swallows, before trying to think of the best solution, "let's get you cleaned up, ok? Then... You can come and share with me if you like? It'll be like old times? Same deal, ok? You and Lettuce have your half and I'll stay on mine." He knows Eskel won't like it much, but he also knows that he's less threatening to Geralt.

"Iii...it made a mess."

"Happens to the best of us." Vesemir's voice drifts in, "nothing to be upset about. Get a quick bath and go back to sleep."

  
  


By dinner time, even Jaksier seems exhausted, Eskel muses watching the bard’s eyes droop and his whole body curve towards the table he’s sitting at, everything seemingly sagging under the weight of exhaustion.

Geralt is shaking with it, his whole body vibrating with a tense tiredness that makes every muscle Eskel has ache with sympathy.

“Dinner!” Yen trills, trying for loud enough to wake Jaskier but quiet enough to keep from startling Gera;t.

“Yes,” Jaksier agrees blearily, “thank you.”

“Yes, thank you, Yen.”

“Don’t thank me, Vesemir did the cooking.” Geralt looks from the blow to Yen and back. “You can eat it.” she says, “it’s quite safe.”

Geralt picks up his spoon shaking worse than ever. 

“It’s good, Geralt.” Jaskier chimes in. “Hot, filling everything you could want.”

“Yes.” Geralt agrees, and Eskel turns to look, it's the first time he hasn’t added an honorific onto his words, “except that IT HATES MEAT!” Everybody jumps at the volume as Geralt goes from almost whispering to screaming at the tops of his lungs within the space of a sentence. Geralt swipes the bowl from the table and backs away knocking his chair over as he goes. “It hates meat! It hates it. It hates you!”

“That,” Vesemir’s quiet voice cuts in, “is a terrible shame, because we all love you.”

“Yeah,” Eskel puts in weakly, “sucks to be us, I guess, because we will just have to keep on loving you even if you hate us.” He shrugs and adopts his best ‘what can you do expression’ while kicking Lam under the table.

“My life is made, entirely, out of sadness.” Lam agrees, his tone so sorrowful that it seems to stop Geralt in his tracks from where he had clearly been gearing up for round two of his temper tantrum.

Breathing hard, hands clenching and unclenching Geralt stares back at them, “that’s it?” he demands, his voice going through such a range of octaves that Eskel is certain he sees jealousy on Jaskier’s face. “That’s it, right, it..I,” he points at himself with a hugely overdone gesture, “I am just supposed to believe that that’s your whole response?”

“No,” Vesemir says, voice so calm he could be watching a lovely sunrise as opposed to the meltdown of his middle son over stew. “You need to get a mop and clear up, please, oh, and Geralt, a simple ‘I am vegetarian’ would have sufficed.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes, please.”

“Right, your..you’re not just going to...have me beaten? Or raped, or, or, or, starved for wasting food, you expect me to believe that this is it?”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything, Geralt, I trust entirely that the passage of time will prove me right in due course.”

Eskel watches Geralt mouth working uselessly as he looks at them clearly at a loss. “Want a hand clearing up?”

“I...it..Uh?”

“No, come on, ‘I’ was right, don’t back up.” He says getting to his feet and extending a hand to Geralt, “come on, I will show you where the mops are.” Geralt follows, still wearing the same shell shocked expression he had worn the first time they had had sword practice with real steel and he’d accidentally drawn blood. Eskel opens his mouth to talk, to ask about the meltdown but shuts it again at the smell of worry and fear coming off his brother in waves. “Listen, you’re ok. I know it’s too soon to believe this yet as well, but try thinking on this one too. We love you and we aren’t angry with you.” He shrugs, “my first few months back a kicked holes in sooooo many doors.” He pauses to think, “and broke loads of tables, and a couple of chairs...and some books.”

“You...you broke books?” Geralt sounds so shocked that Eskel feels his heart skipping a beat at the thought that maybe, just maybe, his brother remembers him.

“Yeah, I was really, really angry.”

His brother is quiet but for the first time he at least doesn’t smell afraid or frustrated and he looks thoughtful instead of terrified or agnosied.

They clean up in silence and Eskel recognises the effort that the others, Jaskier in particular, are putting into filling the dining hall with chatter so that it doesn’t become awkward, he makes a note to get the other man an ale in silent thanks later.

As soon as the clean up is completed Geralt heads for the door.

“Geralt,” Vesemir calls, and waits just long enough for Geralt to turn before throwing him an apple. “Take that in case you get hungry later. Remember the kitchen is always open to you but I know it’s a long cold trek in the middle of the night.”

Geralt grunts but shoves the apple into his pocket and leaves, Lettuce trotting at his heels, obedient as any dog.

“Well,” Jaskier says, his voice heavy with the threat of tears, “this is a fucking disaster, what are we going to do?”

Eskel twitches, “What do you mean?”

“What do  _ I  _ mean?” Jaskier almost screeches, “he can’t sleep, screams loud enough to wake the dead and now he won’t eat.” He buries his face in his hands, “oh, gods, how can we help him, we can’t let him starve.”

“It’s one missed meal.” Eskel protests, wondering if he is diminishing or Jaskier is catasphotsing.

“I think today was an excellent day.” Vesemir puts in and they all stare at him.

“Did..did you just live the same day as us, old man?” Lam demands.

Vesemir raises one grey eyebrow and Eskel winces on his idiot brother’s behalf, he hopes Lam still finds mucking out the stables therapeutic. “It is excellent news, your brother has shown extraordinary resilience, even I didn’t dare dream we would see so much progress so quickly.”

“Uhh?” Eskel puts in, because Geralt seems a little less fraught before he went to bed, but progress? “Uh, which progress is this?”

“Did he have nightmares in Cintra?” Vesemir asks, raising one hand.

“No.” Jaskier snaps, “and that, if I may say so, is entirely the point!”

“Yes, I quite agree.” Vesmeir says so placidly that Eskel makes a mental note to tell Jaskier to help Lam with the mucking out for a few days to get back into Vesemir’s good books. “What would have happened if he had had a nightmare in Cintra?”

“I don’t know?”

“Take a guess.”

“The guards would have beaten him? Or the collar? I mean, he tried not to draw attention to himself.”   
“Exactly, Geralt had learned, so well that even unconscious he remembered his lessons, that there would be no..mercy, no sympathy if he showed his hurt.” Jaskier winces and Vesemir softens enough to reach across to pat his hand, “So he hid it. He hid it when he first came here too, he didn’t dare show us he was sick, or that he was afraid, we knew but he did his best to hide it, but now he is learning bit by bit then he can show us when he hurts. He can show us that he has feelings and thoughts. This is trust.” Vesemir chuckles at the doubt etched into Jaksiers features, “no, really, he trusts that he can throw a plate on the floor and not be beaten half to death for it-”

“But..he did say...”

“I know, I was there too. Put it another way would he have done that a month ago? Would he have done it a week ago? No. He ate his meal’s like an obedient slave who has no idea when the next meal might arrive. He suffered his night terrors in silence because he was too afraid to disturb us, too afraid of what reminding us of his existence would bring him. In Cintra reminding the guards he was there would have led to, at best, physical pain, reminding Calanthe of his existence would have resulted in the same. Here, he is beginning to understand unconsciously at least, that he can tell us.”

“Maybe.” Jaskier says, but his facial expression and tone of voice don’t match even the doubtful agreement.

“Trust me.” Vesemir, pats his hand again, “all the little boys who came here did exactly the same. They were as good as gold until they realised that their staying here, keeping their home and this new family, was not reliant upon their good behaviour, and then, and only then did they feel safe enough to show us their hurt - they had been abandoned after all and they had been dealt a grievous wound, most came to us at three or four years old, they knew their mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters and families. Once they felt safe they railed against us, all of you,” he nods at Eskel and Lam goes wide eyed before his face settles into glee.

“What did he do?”

“The same as most of the other boys. Screamed that we weren’t your fathers. Told us you hated us and couldn’t wait to leave. Most of you grew out of it.” His tone turns arc and he glances at Lam before grinning. “It is a season of his grief, he needs to be met with understanding and compassion, the seasons will turn and your brother will change with them."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some more memories begin to bubble up and some more progress is made but progress is never as linear as you would ideally like

The sounds of screams set his teeth on edge and for the third time he pushes the blanket back and gets up, praying to the gods that this time, please, this time Geralt will not be too confused when he wakes. Having to physically stop Geralt from trying to run away is...upsetting and even though when Geralt wakes up enough to understand where he is and what he was doing he always accepts that, yes, Eskel was right to stop him from running blindly off into the night there is always the smell of his terror that lingers in the air from having been grabbed.

Eskel pushes the door open and steps into the corridor.

“I’ll go.” Jaskier says, “you’ve been twice already, go back to bed.”

“He might try to run from you.”

“Ok, well, stay and if I can’t handle him then help if he’s not too bad go and get some sleep. Eskel leans against the wall and listens to the sound of Jaksier talking, as much as it hurts Jaskier is better with half awake, half asleep post nightmare Geralt. It could be slight build or the fact that Geralt remembers knowing Jaskier for longer but Jaskier has the best success rate at keeping Geralt calm and coaxing him back into bed after a nightmare, better than the rest of them put together.

There is a muffled thump and then the hitching of Geralt’s panicked breathing as he tries to work out where he is.

“Lettuce is here, your blanket is here. Do you want a drink?”

“....Jaskier?”

“Yup, large as life and twice as handsome!”

“Oh? Uh?”

“Don’t worry, it’s a saying. Is your bed dry or do you need to share with me.”

“Umm.”

“Come on then.”

Eskel sneaks back to bed as he hears the sounds of Geralt getting up.

"Was Geralt always a chicken whisperer?"

"Hmm?" Eskel drags his eyes from where Bertie the resident cockerel is huffily pecking around Geralt as Betsie and Susie sit on his knees. Privately he thinks that Bertie thinks Geralt is one of his flock but doesn't dare say so aloud in case it worries Geralt. "Yeah? Animals liked him. He liked them. He had a pet spider when we were little...named it 'legs'." He huffs a laugh and goes back to the simple hobby of watching Geralt. "He seems happier?"

"Yeah?" Jaksier sits down next to him. “I think so. During the day anyway. His nightmares are pretty rough..Do you think we should ask him about them?”   
“I don’t know. I worry if we do he will feel obliged to answer us and I don’t want to force him to tell us anything he doesn’t feel comfortable with.”

“No, I know.”

Eskel looks over to Jaskier, the flamboyant man unusually pensive, “coin for you thoughts?”

“I just.. I wonder if letting him forget as best he can is the right thing to do or if we should be encouraging him to talk.”

“It will be a very fine line with Geralt between encouragement and pressurising.”   
“I know.” Jaskier echoes glumily. “I would leave it if he was sleeping even a little soundly at night, but mostly he drifts and then has a nightmare. It...I hate that I, we, can’t protect him from that, even here.”

“Where is Eskel?” Geralt almost, but not quite demands and Vesemir wonders if either he or Eskel have any idea just how closely they are mirroring their toddler selves these days. The memory of a tiny, tearfully hiccuping Geralt demanding the return of ‘his’ Eskel the one time they had tried to room the boys separately rises, and so too does the memory of the ear pain he’d suffered when Geralt had simply began to scream for ‘my Eskel, no one else’s’ at a volume that had sent the birds flapping from the roof. All the other teachers had smiled sympathetically and, as far as he knows, said supportive things - he had barely been able to hear them over the ringing in his ears.

“He went to town.”

“Town?” Geralt repeats as though the word is at once foreign and deeply insulting, “town? Why...is he coming back? When? Is it safe?”

“He will be back before nightfall and it is quite safe.”

“Maybe...maybe we should go look for him anyway?”

“I am certain that is not necessary.”   
“He didn’t even tell me he was going.” Geralt laments and Vesemir looks away quickly. Not the pout! He has always been helpless against the pout. 

“He will be back soon and you can take it up with him.”

He works and projects as much calm as he can as Geralt paces and mutters, picks up Lettuce, puts down Lettuce and paces again before looking out of the window.

“How long until nightfall.”

“Another two hours at least.”   
“Oh...” Geralt completes another lap of the room, shouldering his worries in silence for all of a minute before flopping down, “I think I should look for him.”

“I didn’t know you knew the way to town?”

“Oh...” Geralt blinks and looks at the floor as though it has betrayed him, “well, you know, perhaps you’d like a walk?”

“He will be fine and has gone on horseback. Going to meet him will slow him up.”

“Oh.”

“Why don’t you go to the kitchen and see if Gen will help you make some scones, they are Eskel favourite.”

Geralt brightens before looking mutinous, “He went without me.”

“Then tell him when he gets home that you would appreciate it if he told you in future.” Geralt grunts like the teenage boy he had been and Vesemir feels his heart ache with love and bittersweet tang of relief and regret, “I love you, so much, son, now go and ask about those scones and stop sulking in my office.”

Geralt’s offended huffy hen impression is as funny now as it has ever been and Vesemir smiles down at his accounts. He completes one page and moves onto the next before memory of the bittersweet feeling resurfaces, relief at his son home alive, regret at all that had befallen him and all the wasted years. He sets aside the book.

“-these are definitely the ones he likes?”

“Yes, cherry and cheese.”

“Is he...has he ever hit his head?” He hears Geralt ask, clearly trying desperately for tact.

“Many times.” Vesemir says and smoothes a hand over Geralt’s shoulder when the young Witcher jumps, pleased when Geralt moves fractionally into the touch rather than going still or flinching away.

“Cherry and cheese though?”

Vesemir laughs, “let’s make a few plain and some other flavours too.”

“I am mad at you.” Geralt announces the second Eskel appears and Vesemir forces the laugh into a cough at the look of dismay, delight and shock that rolls across his eldest’s face. “I made you scones.”

“Oh...That might not be the best way to encourage me to make you mad less often you know?”

“Oh...well, watch me eat them all then?”   
“You hate cheese and cherry.”

“Yeah,” Geralt sighs, “they are an affront against the gods and against nature, not to mention those of us with taste buds, they look all wonky too.” he casts sad eyes at the scones. They are a bit disastrous, Vesemir has to admit. Jaskier is glaring at Eskel from behind Geralt, ‘eat them all’ he mouths while making overdone ‘hmmm’ gestures rubbing at his stomach and smiling in a way that makes him look deranged. Vesemir bites his tongue and reminds himself that laughing at his middle child's progress even peripherally is not helpful.

Eskel beams, clearly more pleased at Geralt’s gentle humour than the scones. “How did I make you mad?”

“You..you left!”

“I went into town? I was always going to come home!”

“Well..I didn’t know you had left.”

"Ah." Eskel says, nicely demonstrating the similarities and differences in his eldest two boys, one vowel is the limit it seems these days. "Well, I got you a present."

Geralt looks and smells nervous which is a big improvement on the terrified he would have been if Eskel had announced that a couple of months before. "It's a diary." Eskel says and holds it up unwrapped rather than covered in cloth or a patterned paper as Vesemir knows he would have done if he was giving a gift to anyone else. "It's for you, and I got you some paints, inks and pastels."

Geralt starts to edge forwards, he kept a diary as a child, Vesemir remembers, he had liked to draw and paint, Eskel always did thoughtful gifts.

Eskel sets all the items down on the table and Geralt's eyes go wide, his hands twitching towards the colours as he wavers. 

"What do I need to do to have them?"

"They are a gift for you." Eskel says and then as the line of Geralt's shoulders go tense he adds, "and you made me some scones." 

Geralt brightens and brings one across. "Yeah, here...but next time you go to town, do, can- will you tell me?" He shuffles a bit, "I didn't really like not knowing where you were."

  
  
  
  


"How are you this morning?"

"I..it..I. I," Geralt clears his throat and looks down at his feet, swallows hard and tries again, "I..I feel weird."

"Weird?"

"Inside?"

"A stomach ache? Do you want to see, Triss."

Geralt huffs, frustrated, "no, I..just feel weird."

Jaskier tries to nod understandingly despite being baffled. "Ok, do you hurt?"

"No." Geralt says, slowly, his brow furrowed with concentration. "I just," he shuffles his weight from foot to foot. "I just feel odd."

Jaskier tries not to sigh, “is there something I can do to help?”

“I just, no, I dunno, it’s, fuck, I don’t.” Geralt shrugs clearly frustrated and upset.

“Can you draw me a picture to explain? Or maybe it might help you define how you’re feeling in your own mind?”

A little of the tension leaches out of Geralt and he nods before scooping Lettuce up into his arms and wandering off.

Eskel puts the drawing down between them, "look."

Jaskier obeys, "it's.... interesting?"

"It's weird. A house without a door and fences that look like dicks? I mean? Should we be worried?"

Jaskier shrugs his shoulders, "I mean, probably? But not about this. It's a drawing, if he is alluding to what happened to him then great, like lancing an abscess it's easier to drain if it's near the surface, let's let him...express himself."

Eskel looks back at the picture, "you think that's what he's doing?"

"I think, I think, yeah, I think he needs someone to talk to and he can't or maybe won't talk to us yet. I know he talks to Lettuce, I hear him sometimes, I think he's trying to work things out."

"It's not... It doesn't show anything..?" Eskel waves a hand clearly trying to encompass all sexual violence without saying either word.

"Lots of song lyrics talk about how the singer wants to fuck someone. Some songs use those words but many don't. It is what they mean though."

"Huh."

_ “Stop that racket.” _

_ The collar burns even as it bites into its arm to stifle the noise, pain burns unrelentingly down it’s spine and the man presses in, in, in, beside the first who had already forced into it. _

_ “Stop that racket.” _

_ Something hits it hard across the shoulders and it whimpers before biting back the sounds, teeth digging deeper into it’s bicep. _

_ “Stop that racket!” _

_ Every rough thrust jolts it forwards but it can’t brace itself and keep quiet at the same time - doesn’t have the thoughts to spare to figure out a solution - if there even is one. _

_ “Ai, fuck, yeah, fuck.” One grunts and someone is pulling on it’s hair curving it’s spine up forcing it to follow the pressure to look into the furiously angry face of it’s abuser....Eskel. _

He knows he’s screaming now, he’s woken up most of the castle, himself last but now, even awake he cannot stop screaming.

“Geralt!” 

He ignores the voice and keeps on screaming, everyone must be awake now, but fuck it, everything is so fucked up.

“Ssshhh, shhh,shhhh, come on, Geralt, come on, buddy. You’re ok, you’re alright.”

His throat aches and he can taste blood, but it’s the plaintive yowl from Lettuce that forces him to get himself under control, just because he’s having stupid, fucked up, messed up dreams doesn’t mean that he can scare Lettuce.

“Hey, Geralt, are you ok?”

Jaskier sounds tired, he must be tired, because he’s up every night dealing with nightmares, his nightmares. Geralt swallows and the taste of blood blooms brighter across his senses. Until tonight he’d welcomed Jaskier but now he wants Eskel but can't bring himself to ask...what if he panics. What if he loses his best friend because he can’t control his own emotions? He’s substituting Eskel into the worst that humanity has to offer and now wants to go crawling to him for comfort. “Yeah, “ he forces himself to reply, “I’m ok.” If he even dreams about Eskel like that again he is going to need to wake up and apologise.

He can’t bring himself to sleep, the memory of the dream has faded off but the horror of waking to realise what he had done, the way he had twisted his friend stays sickeningly fresh in his mind. His eyes itch with tiredness but he’s gone three or more days without sleep before this is nothing.

He sits up in bed, knees to chest and concentrates on not sleeping.

The dawn light is a cold comfort and he makes himself get up and go out to the stables to pet Elderflower and feed the chickens before he can face trying to eat.

“Slept through!” Jaskier chirps when he makes it to the dining hall. Too tired to argue he drops into a chair and pulls the nearest unguarded bowl of porridge towards him. 

“Did you sleep?” Lam asks, voice full of concern.

“A bit maybe.”

“Rough night?” Eskel asks dropping into the seat next to him, he’s so warm body pulling out heat like a space heater and despite all the extra meals Geralt still hasn’t managed to gain all the weight back, he longs to be able to lean in and absorb some of the warmth from his brother.

“Not the best one.” he offers, trying not to sound too cagey.

“You could write about it in your book?”

“Hmmm.” The porridge is warm and the fruit that Jaskier has chopped into it is sweet without adding too much in flavour, he stirs it a bit more to distribute it more evenly feeling grateful to have such good friends who have really bent over backwards to help him. The guilt at including Eskel in his nightmares rises again and he stirs a little faster and more forcefully, trying to push aside the thoughts.

He forces his eyes to open and rubs them, they feel like sand and ashes.

“Come and take a nap with Elderflower?” Eskel suggests and it is a suggestion, he knows that there will be no punishment for refusal.

“No.” he feels sick and guilty for refusing anyway. “I am going to write in my book.”

“Oh,” Eskel looks taken back and a little hurt and Geralt looks away rather than see it. “Well, if that’s what you want, I..I’ll see you later?”

“Sure.”

He walks around the castle and then does another circuit, refusing lunch because if he sits, he’s going to sleep, he just needs to keep going until he gets his second wind.

“Hey, Geralt.”

He shakes himself, uncertain if he’d been asleep standing up. “Uh? Hi.”   
“Do you remember me? I’m Gen,” she holds out a hand and he knows he should take it, it is the polite thing to do, but suddenly he doesn’t want to, why should he? “Oh, ok, no touching. Got it, I’m sorry.”   
“S’ok.” he sticks his hands in his pockets and looks around awkwardly. “I’m sorry..I just-”

“You’re exhausted and really, really stressed out.”

Stupidly, despite everything he has suffered it’s her gentle tone that brings tears to his eyes, “uh?”

“Oh, there you are, Gen,” Yennifer appears and looks them both up and down, “and you too, Geralt. You look tired, are you ok?”

“I..nightmares.” They already know about them and he feels too tired to lie.

“You just didn’t sleep last night then?”

He shakes his head.

“Come and get a cup of tea with us.” Gen says holding out a hand but not making contact, “I have some lavender and camomile, it tastes like ditch water but it is very calming.”

“Yummy.” he grunts but follows along anyway.

Yen laughs, “there is the sparkling wit, Eskel warned us all about that.”

He grunts again, too tired to form words.

The sitting room the Witches use is dimly lit but cosy. "sit, sit." Yen says, before calling out, "Triss? Geralt and Gen are here!"

"Coming!"

"Sit, Geralt, while I put the kettle on." Yen looks around, "where is Lettuce?"

"He's with Jaskier." He says, a bit glum, as he slides onto the sofa which seems to try and engulf him in blankets and pillows."

"Poor Lettuce, Jaskier is practicing a new song, I heard him repeat a chorus about 38 times." 

"Any good?" Gen asks, seeing genuinely interested

"Not a clue, I am tone deaf," Yen admits, "but he seemed happy."

Gen laughs, "Geralt, do you want a snack?"

"Please." He isn't sure if he is hungry but if there is a question he doesn't want to answer or needs to think about he's learned taking a drink or a bite of something to eat gives him time to plan his reply. 

"Cake? Biscuit? Bread and jam?"

"Bread and jam."

"Coming right up."

He sinks a bit further into the blankets and let's the warmth of the room sink into his bones.

"Do you want to talk about your nightmares?" Yen asks.

Geralt prises open eyes that had become leaden and heavy and blinks. "I fucked up." He admits, his voice ragged and slow.

"How?" Gen asks, placing a plate on a little side table and dragging it closer.

He is saved from responding as Triss comes in, teapot and tray floating along behind her and settling themselves onto the table. "I'll pour." Triss says, "Geralt, tea and honey?"

"Take the honey!" Gen stage whispers, "it's a little less like ditch water when it's sweet." 

Laughing, Triss pretends to swat her and the scent of arousal heightens. 

He sits up alarmed.

"Don't worry, dear," Yen soothes at once, "you're a lovely boy, but not our cup of tea, see?" She gestures between the three of them and exclude him.

"Oh? Oh?" He blinks, "I didn't know...I mean, I people do that even without a slave too?"

"Yes. Some people prefer their own gender and consent is key. As long as everyone is in agreement then there is no harm in it."

"And...everyone is....," He pauses and looks around at their sweet, expectant faces, "ok?"

"We are all fine, Geralt." Triss says, leaning in and passing him a cup. "We are very happy with each other, I find that I am much happier with my girls in my life than I was without them."

Nervous, Geralt stares at the cup and twists it round and round on the saucer. "I...yeah, that makes sense." He swallows and then takes a little sip of the tea, "urgh."

Yen snorts a laugh, "yeah, that's pretty much it. But, honestly, you'll feel better afterwards."

"Do you want to talk about your nightmares or sit quietly?"

"I...I let Eskel down." 

Clearly, that had not been what they had been expecting as three sets of perfectly groomed eyebrows approach the ceiling. "How did you do that?" Triss asks, her voice soft, "Eskel is so proud of you, I don't know that you could let him down."

"That, that's what's so bad about it." He groans, putting the cup down carefully so he can bury his face in his hands. "He- and I, I'm such a fuck up!"

"Can you start from the beginning?" Gen asks, "you've lost me."

Geralt pulls his hands away from his face and twists his fingers together, "I...don't know that I can, at least not yet."

"Ok." Yen offers, "but, Geralt, listen to me, whatever it is that you're feeling badly about, I promise,  _ promise _ you that Eskel will not be angry, with you, about it. He might be upset that you were hurt or that you feel frightened about your nightmares, because it is upsetting when someone we love is upset, but neither he, nor Jaskier, nor Vesemir, not any of us," she gestures and the other ladies nod fervently, "or even Lambert will be cross with you."

"What if..." He pauses, his first instinct is to say 'someone' and try to distance himself from the questions but even he is aware enough to know it will be obvious and he hasn't slept in almost three days. "I..dreamed about him in a bad way?"

"Ahhhh." Gen nods, while Yen and Triss both turn to look at her.

"Åhh?" Triss asks, "you get it?"

"I get it." She turns to Geralt, "honey, dreams are dreams, they are your brain making sense of the things that have happened to you. They are both real and not. The content of your dream might be very real but the ending or the people or place not, that's normal."

"I shouldn't though." He blurts, frustrated with himself. "He..it's like, I'm hurting him but putting him there!"

"No, no, you're not." Yen says, "he would understand that you can't help what you dream about. This is like when you accidentally call Jaskier Lettuce for the other way around, it's a mistake we all make because we aren't perfect and we are not in total control of our thoughts."

"I hate it though!" He knows he sounds like a whiny five year old but suddenly he really can't help it. "I hate it, I don't want to have them. I want them to stop and to go away and..." He takes a deep shuddering breath, before pulling one of the pillows into his lap and holding it against his chest. "I just-" he breaks off and stares helplessly at the floor.

"It's been really rough for you." Gen says, slipping off her seat to crouch in front of him. "And you have been so, so brave. I know that this is really hard but I think you might feel better if you take a nap."

"I'll have a nightmare!" He whined, and he's aware of how dumb and hysterical he sounds but he can't stop.

"We can stay." Yen offers, "we're just doing a bit of sorting out anyway, if you look like you're having a nightmare one of us can wake you."

"Don't tell Eskel about the nightmare?"

"No. We won't, but, Geralt, he isn't going to be upset at you."

He nods, but he feels more upset than ever. "I just..." He trails off, unable to articulate the negativity he feels. 

"Sleep." Yen chides softly, "you'll feel better."

He slides down into the cushions and props his legs up onto the soft surface. Gen tugs one of the blankets so it falls across his body and then throws another log onto the fire to make it blaze up and throw out more heat.

"Geralt?" Someone cards a hand through his hair and he flails a bit until he gets enough control to sit upright. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah? I think so?"

"You seemed a bit unhappy so I thought I'd just check." Gen says and steps back.

Geralt blinks trying to remember where he is and what happened. "Um?”

“You’re in our sitting room,” she reminds him, “taking a nap.”

“Yeah.” he nods, groggy with sleep.

“Do you want to sleep some more?”

“Ummm.” he mumbles, already drifting off again.

He wakes again to the sound of humming, and even more than half asleep he knows it’s Jaskier and let’s himself relax.

“Hey, you looked like you needed that.”   
“I think I did.”

“When did you last sleep before this?” Jaskier asks, deceptively casually.

“Uhhh.” Geralt sits up and rubs at his eyes, “where is Lettuce.” 

“He is in the kitchen, it is salmon for dinner for the carnivores, there is potatoes and some kind of stew made of beans and mushrooms for you, Yen added herbs and wine and it smelled really good so I think you’re in for a treat. When did you last sleep? You don’t have to tell me, but I want to help. Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Geralt sighs, it will be easier to speak to Jaskier about this though he reasons, Jaskier was sort of there for some of it, “You know what most of my nightmares are about?”

“Well, shit, I mean loads of things I imagine, but I can guess some common themes.”

“Yeah, well, uh, I, I dreamed that Eskel was there.”

“Oh?” Jaskier doesn’t look too concerned, or jump out of his seat, or even smell dismayed and Geralt lets the sinking realisation that he may, just possibly, have overreacted a little, perhaps, filter through him.

“Yeah, I can see that would be upsetting.” Jaskier says finally, “but you do know that Eskel would never do anything to hurt you, although if he did, even accidentally you can always tell us and we will believe you.” he finishes hastily.

“Eskel would never!”

“No, I said that.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“OK, well then, can you tell me what you did mean?”

“I, it wasn’t right of me to accuse Eskel of that!” He blurts feeling the frustration rise again.   
“Well, did you accuse him of anything? It seems like you had a nightmare and now want to beat yourself up about it. Geralt, look, honestly, if you tell me I am wrong I will shut up, but are you one hundred percent sure this is about Eskel?”

“Yes!”

“Then is it definitely about this in the direction you think?”

“What are you trying to say?”   
“Are you, 100 percent sure, that you don’t just want a relationship with Eskel and feel worried about it?”   
“I have a relationship with Eskel.” Geralt replies, uncomfortably aware of how hard his heart is beating. “He’s my...I, mean, well, we are...he-”

“You do have a relationship.” Jaskier confirms and Geralt lets the desperate tense clutch of his shoulders sink down a little, in relief, “you are very close and you clearly care a great deal about each other.” Jaskier sounds a little wistful but carries on, “the question is: what kind of relationship do you want?” He points a finger and emphasises with a point, “YOU, what do  _ you  _ want? Do you want to be close brothers? Best friends? Lovers? Married?”

“We can’t be lovers.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s....isn’t it?”

“I have no idea?” Jaskier admits, “You didn’t say anything, but I think maybe I can guess so just to name a few things it’s not, disgusting, wrong, something you have to do, anything that will make either of you less masculine or less..human. Sex isn’t just something that is forced onto slaves you know, people have sex because they want to,  _ both _ of them. Because it’s fun, or because it’s passionate or, I mean, loads of reasons really.”

Geralt is aware that some expression must be showing on his face, because Jaskier looks a little sad, “oh, did we not make that clear?”

“Well, I-” he swallows and rubs his hand over his eyes. “I don’t know what I want.”

Jaskier shrugs, “it’s like that sometimes.” he smiles, “it is complicated, welcome to the world of consensual adult relationships. Ok, here are the rules.” Nodding, Geralt, leans forwards, he is good with rules, he lived under them for a century, “Always ask, only an enthusiastic yes from a sober person is a yes everything else is a no in disguise and that includes from you too, ok?”   
Geralt nods and waits, “that's it.”

“Well, there is more stuff for long term relationships, like communication and compromise, but to be perfectly honest Geralt, my longest relationship was six months and we broke up when she nudged my lute off the table.”

“And yet she lives?”

“Well, that’s how I am telling the story anyway.” Jaskier says breezily and it startles a laugh out of Geralt.

“How’s the stew?” Gen asks, passing down a basket of rolls, “we added some rosemary and some nettle.”

“Nettle?” Jaskier chimes in what he desperately hopes is a tone that hides his disgust.

“Yes, it was Aiden’s idea.”

“Who’s Aiden.” Geralt asks, looking wary.

“Aiden’s boyfriend.” Eskel says, and Jaskier wishes he had had a chance to speak to the other’s first, “he’s alright, you know for a cat.”

“A cat?”

“Yeah.Bunch of prissy fuckers if you ask me?”

“Allegedly prissy because of their fighting style.” Jaskier buts in, kicking Eskel under the table, wondering why he is fighting so hard to get the great lump laid when it hurts him in his heart to do so,  _ right, Geralt, what he wants Jaskier will help him get. _ Eskel looks startled and hurt and Jaskier mimes ‘later’. 

“Uh, so that’s all there is to say about that then.” Eskel says looking a little flummoxed, knowing that he has made a faux pas but uncertain of what it is, “umm um, great, uh, bread, thank Yen!”

Yen looks at him almost as bewildered, “your welcome, Eskel, and in a completely unrelated topic, have you received any traumatic brain injuries you’d like to tell me about?”

“Brain injury?” Geralt yelps and dives out of his chair, to start carding though Eskel’s hair, it might be the first time he’s ever made contact first, Jaskier thinks misty eyed and gestures to Vesemir who is a thousand percent certain is building the equivalent of a baby book to mark all of Geralt’s firsts off into. 

“He’s fine.” Vesemir calls, while clearly writing a note into a book on his lap, Jaskier is so onto him. “Honestly, Geralt, he’s not Lambert, Eskel has a few neurones to spare before we have to worry.”

“Hey!” Eskel replies, “a few?”

“HEY!” Lam calls louder from the doorway, “what do you mean ‘he’s not Lambert?’”

“Well, I mean... you aren’t.” A newcomer says, Jaskier gives him a little way, handsome, again he thinks, seriously how is this his life? The only one left is Vesemir and as far as Jaskier can work out he is having a long distance fling with the lady in the village who makes the honey cakes, lucky bastard, they are really good cakes.

“Hi, I am Jaskier.” He announces, “I’ve heard so much about you. I feel like I know you already.” Aiden gives Lambert a predictable amount of side eye so Jaskier keeps his most jaunty smile on his face.

“Hi, Jaskier, nice to meet you, Lambert mentioned you’re a bard? Sounds like we could have some music sometime then?”

“Uh, hi?” Geralt says and his voice quavers a bit, “It’s..um,” he looks at Eskel and then at Jaskier. Jaskier gives his encouraging smile number 47 (nodding, big smile, no teeth) along with a jaunty thumbs up. “I am Geralt.”

“Ahh, hey, Geralt, Lam told me all about you.” Aiden says, green eyes crinkling as he smiles, “It’s so good to have you back with us.”

“Be really nice!” Lambert hisses loud enough that the rest of the room hears him, “or I will have to kill you.”

Geralt jumps a bit and Eskel winds an arm around his waist to stop him from falling over backwards. “Lam, that may have been less helpful than you might have thought.”

“I meant Aiden.” Lam clarifies, “I would kill Aiden.”

“Thank you, my love, as always you have made this visit so welcoming and special.” Aiden drawls while looking thoroughly amused. 

“Well, now that the introductions are over,” Vesemir says, clearly now writing ‘Geralt met Aiden’ or words to that effect into his book, Jaskier must offer to help with it in order to be allowed to read it sometimes, “perhaps we can eat dinner?”

“Geralt is vegetarian,” Lam announces, “so don’t give him any meat.”   
Aiden gives Lambert a look that speaks of long suffering and agrees, “no, dearest, I would not dream of it.”

“He hates loud noises.” Lambert declares and Jaskier sneaks some glances around just in case it’s him that's gone mad, but everyone else is watching Lambert too, “so be careful.”   
“I shall proceed with the utmost caution.” Aiden agrees, looking wildly amused, “Geralt, is Eskel’s head ok?” 

Geralt jumps and returns to sifting through Eskel’s hair as though he had forgotten he had stopped. 

“I am fine.” Eskel tells him, “It was just Yen trying,  _ trying, _ ” he turns to face her a little, “to be funny.”

“Head injuries are very dangerous.” Geralt says, “there can be a period of lucidity followed by death.”

Jaskier startles as hard as Geralt when three heads snap in Geralt’s direction.

“What did...what?”

“Lucid...period?” Geralt repeats, very hesitant now.

“That is very.. Huh, that is such an interesting and useful piece of information, son,” Vesemir puts in, “thank you so much for sharing it with us, that could save lives, thank you, where did you learn that?”   
“Uuhhh, it doesn’t know?” Geralt stutters a little shifting from foot to foot as he does, rattled.

“No, well, thank you for sharing. Who wants more bread?” Vesemir asks in a tone that implies they had better all do and sit down.

“Geralt?” Geralt doesn’t move from where he is nodding off over a pile of papers, and Vesemir chances a half step forwards, “Geralt, son?”

Geralt jumps awake and instantly tries to pretend he hadn’t been asleep.

“Are you tired?”

“No, sir?” His poor boy declares, in tones of shocked but clearly affected denial, “no, no sir, I was...?” Geralt trails off staring down at the papers without a hint of recognition, slowly the expression on his face morphs from confusion into dread.

“Son, I think it is time that you took a nap.” he tries to salvage the situation, hoping for a small miracle as he hears Geralt’s breathing begin to hitch, “Son, it’s ok, you just need a nap.”

_ The good days are getting better and better,  _ he reminds himself firmly against a wave of sadness,  _ the bad days are getting farther and farther apart.  _

He keeps on reminding himself as he sits next to the table and talks soothing bullshit as his much loved middle son rocks back and forth in a huddle of shaking limbs.


End file.
